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THE 

LONELY HOUSE 

MRS. 

BELl6c LOWNDES 


■S 


By MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES 

The Lonely House 
Good Old Anna 
Love and Hatred 
Lilla: a Part of Her Life 
The Red Cross Barge 


NEW YORK 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


THE 

LONELY HOUSE 

BY 

MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES 

<♦ 

AUTHOR OF “LILLA,” “lOVE AND HATRED,” “GOOD OLD ANNA,” 

“the chink in the armour,” etc. 


NEW 


YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



COPYRIGHT, 1920, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 





jUn 17 1520 

S V 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


©CI.A571330 


THE LONELY HOUSE 




THE LONELY HOUSE 


CHAPTER I 

L ily FAIRFIELD seemed to be rushing along a dark 
tunnel. It was as if she were being borne on wings. 
A keen, delicately perfumed air was blowing in her 
face. Far ahead of her there was a pin-point gleam of bright 
light — ^that surely must be the end of the tunnel? But as 
she swept on and on, farther and farther, the gleam did not 
grow larger or brighter. It seemed to remain, a white fixed 
star of light, infinitely far away. 

Though the experience was intensely vivid, in a sense the 
girl was conscious that she was experiencing one of the 
strange, curious dreams, not wholly unpleasant, though 
sometimes verging on nightmare, which had haunted her 
at certain intervals during the whole of her not very long 
life. 

With dreadful suddenness, out of the dark void above 
there leapt on her a huge black and white cat. She could 
see its phosphorescent eyes glaring at her in the darkness; 
she could feel its stifling weight on her breast. 

She awoke with a strangled cry — to realise that the night- 
mare cat had materialised from a book which had fallen out 
of the net-rack of the swaying French railway carriage in 
which she was traveling ! 

She looked round her, still a little dazed by her strange 
dream. And then she grew very pink, for the only other 

7 


8 The Lonely House 

two occupants of the railway carriage were smiling at her 
broadly. 

There was unveiled admiration and eager interest in the 
face of the older man, a middle-aged Frenchman named 
Hercules Popeau, and a kind of unwilling admiration in 
that of his companion. And yet Angus Stuart, captain 
in the London Scottish, was repeating to himself the quaint, 
moving Scotch phrase, “A guid sight for sair e^en.” 

Lily Fairfield was certainly an agreeable example of what 
the cynics tell you will soon be a vision of the past — a 
delightfully pretty, happy-hearted, simple-natured, old- 
fashioned English girl — a girl who had “done her bit” in 
the Great War, and yet who was as unsophisticated as 
her grandmother might have been — though eager for any 
fun or pleasure that might come her way. 

Lily’s horrid nightmare faded into nothingness. It 
seemed so wonderful, after having left a London dark in 
fog and rain, to find herself in this fairyland of beauty. 
On her left a brilliant sun gleamed on the softly lapping 
waters of the Mediterranean, while to her right the train was 
rushing past lovely gardens full of the exquisite colouring 
which belongs to the French Riviera alone. 

Could it really be only four days since Uncle Tom had 
seen her off at Victoria? 

Though neither of them had said much, each had known it 
to be a solemn parting, the end of a happy chapter which 
had begun when Lily was five years old. Sixteen years 
had gone by since the orphan child had arrived at The Nest, 
Epsom, to become the charge, and in time the beloved 
adopted daughter, of her father’s brother, a retired member 
of the Indian Medical Service, and his prim but kindly wife. 

At first the war had not made much difference to The 
Nest and its occupants. Uncle Tom had taken over the 
practice of a resident doctor who had gone off to the front; 
and after the war had lasted two years Aunt Emmeline 
had at last allowed Lily to do some war work. This was not 
an amusing, exciting job of the kind so many of her young 


9 


The Lonely House 

friends were doing, for it consisted in the dull business of 
looking after some Belgian refugees. Incidentally, she had 
thus acquired a good colloquial knowledge of French, a 
knowledge which should now prove useful. 

The Great War closed a chapter in many a British girl’s 
life, but in Lily’s case it was death, not the war, that had 
done so. Aunt Emmeline, always so prudent and fussy, had 
caught influenza just after the Armistice, and had died in 
four days. 

To the surprise of all those about her, the sudden ending 
of the war and her aunt’s death coming together had been 
too much for the girl. She was ordered a complete change 
of scene, and it was then that Uncle Tom bethought himself 
of a certain clever, good-natured, and energetic lady, the 
Countess Polda, who had been what old-fashioned people 
would call a connection of his wife’s. 

It all hung on what was now very old family history. 
The Countess had been the daughter, by a first wife, of an 
Italian who had become, some forty years ago. Aunt Emme- 
line’s stepfather. Thus, while entirely unrelated, she and 
Countess Polda had for a while called each other sister. 
Each of them had married — ^the one an Englishman, Tom 
Fairfield, and the other a certain Count Polda, who belonged 
to what had seemed to her English connections a very 
extraordinary nationality, for he was a subject of the Prince 
of Monaco. 

Some twelve years ago the Countess had written to know 
if she might come and stay at The Nest for a few days while 
paying a business visit to London. 

Uncle Tom, who was more forthcoming than his wife, 
had declared heartily that of course they must have her. 
And so she had arrived, to become in a sense the romance 
of Lily’s childhood. “Aunt Cosy,” as the little girl had 
been taught to call her, had about her something so hearty, 
so vivid, and so affectionate! Also she dressed beautifully, 
and wore lovely jewels. Everything about her appeared 
rich and rare to the English child. 


lO 


The Lonely House 


Aunt Cosy had taken a great deal of notice of the little 
girl. She often said how much she wished that Lily could 
make friends with her beloved son, Beppo. 

Beppo was the Poldas’ only child. To him the Countess 
was passionately devoted; he was never far from her 
thoughts, and his name was constantly on her lips. Even 
now, after all these years, Lily remembered a miniature 
of Beppo which his mother had worn in a locket round her 
neck under her dress. It showed a pale, rather sickly- 
looking boy. Lily had sometimes wondered idly into what 
sort of a man he had grown up. Beppo had been sixteen 
or seventeen when the Countess had paid her memorable 
visit to England — he must be nearly thirty now. 

At intervals the Countess would write the Englishwoman 
whom she called sister a letter which was at once formal and 
gushing. Two years after her visit to Epsom she had 
written to say that she and her husband, after spending 
most of their married life in Italy, had gone back to his 
native place, Monaco, where they had bought a small prop- 
erty, and where they hoped to spend a peaceful old age. 

It was to La Solitude that Lily Fairfield was now on her 
way, to become Aunt Cosy's “paying guest” for three 
months. 


Lily took a little black leather case out of her pocket. 
It was the first time she had opened it since she had put in it 
the £50 in £5 notes which had been her Uncle Tom’s parting 
gift. It had seemed to the girl an enormous sum of money, 
but, “it will melt much sooner than you think,” he had said, 
smiling, but all the same he had told her not to let any 
strangers know that she had it. 

The notes now lay safe in an envelope on one side of the 
letter-case. From the other flap she drew out a letter which 
she had never held in her hand before, though Uncle Tom 
had read it aloud t^ her the morning it had arrived, about 
ten days ago. 


The Lonely House 


II 


On a large and rather common-looking sheet of notepaper 
was written in a sloping hand, with what must have been an 
almost pin-point nib, the following letter : 

La Solitude, Monaco. 

My Dear Thomas, 

I offer you sincere condolence on the death of the 
beloved Emmeline. 

In answer to your kind inquiries I am glad to say our son 
is in excellent health, serving his country as a patriot should 
do in these dark days. He did not fight, for he has always 
been delicate; also very intelligent. He was of more use 
to Italy by staying in Rome than he would have been at the 
front. 

And now, dear friend, to business and pleasure both. 
We shall be delighted to take your sweet Lily for the winter. 
You say ‘'round about four pounds a week.” In old days 
willingly would we have taken her for less than that, but 
now, alas, everything is very expensive. I suggest, there- 
fore, five pounds a week, hoping that will not seem to you 
exaggerated. You say she should be much out of doors — 
that will be easy; we are surrounded by orange trees and 
olive groves; there is also a garden to which the Count 
gives much thought and care. We are quiet people and 
seldom go down into Monte Carlo. We neither of us fre- 
quent the Casino. The fact that we are householders in 
Monaco would make it illegal for us to gamble, even were we 
drawn to do so, which we are not. But I will see that Lily • 
does not lead too dull and sad a life 'with her Aunt Cosy and 
Uncle Angelo. 

If the terms, five pounds a week, suit you, may I suggest 
that you telegraph ? Letters take so long coming and going. 
Perhaps you will add the approximate date of Lily’s wel- 
come 'arrival. 

Receive, dear Thomas, the assurance of my affectionate 
and grateful memory. 


COSIMA POLDA. 


12 The Lonely House 

Lily folded the letter up again. It told a good deal, and 
yet it seemed to tell her nothing real of the writer. She 
knew that Uncle Tom had liked the Countess far more than 
Aunt Emmeline had done. Aunt Emmeline always sniffed 
when her step-sister was mentioned, and yet the Coimtess 
had appeared to be so very fond of her. 

Turning back the flap of the little case, Lily noticed there 
was something else there. What a methodical man Uncle 
Tom was, to be sure! In addition to the Countesses letter, 
he had put the telegram which had arrived just as they were 
starting for the station — ^the telegram which asked Lily to 
postpone her arrival for two days. Uncle Tom had wired 
back that that was impossible, as all arrangements had been 
made, and he had again given the exact hour of her arrival 
at Monte Carlo. 

Both Lily and Angus Stuart realised that they owed their 
very comfortable journey from Paris to their kindly, quaint 
fellow-traveller, Hercules Popeau. 

A party of South Americans had made a determined effort 
to turn Lily out of the first-class carriage where she had 
settled herself with some difficulty in Paris. It was this 
at the time unpleasant episode which had made her acquainted 
with both Captain Stuart and M. Popeau. Captain Stuart 
had come forward and taken her part, but with very little 
result. And then, suddenly, there had emerged from the big 
crowd of travellers a short, stout, quiet-looking man, ac- 
companied by an official with the magic letters P.L.M. on 
his cap. He had made very short work of the blustering 
South Americans, and had settled the three — ^Captain Stuart, 
Lily Fairfield, and the stout elderly Frenchman — ^into the 
carriage. Then, with a bow, he had handed the key of the 
door leading into the corridor to the man who Lily now 
knew was Hercules Popeau. Theirs had been the only 
airy, half-empty compartment in the long, dirty train. 

As was natural, the three had become very friendly during 
the journey, and both Lily's fellow-travellers, the cheerful, 
talkative Frenchman, and the silent, quiet Scotsman, had 


The Lonely House 13 

vied with one another to make Miss Fairfield com- 
fortable. 

“We shall be at Monte Carlo in a very few minutes!” 
exclaimed M. Popeau. He spoke good English, but with a 
strong French accent. 

The train went into a tunnel. Then, with a series of 
groans and squeaks, drew up at what Lily knew must be her 
final destination, Monte Carlo Station. 

They all stepped down from the high railway carriage and 
waited till the comparatively small crowd of travellers had 
been seized by the smart-looking hotel porters who had come 
to meet them. But though Lily glanced eagerly this way 
and that, she could see no one who in the least reminded her 
of the Countess Polda, or, indeed, of any person who could 
be looking out for her. 

M. Popeau saw the growing look of discomfiture on his 
pretty companion's face. He turned to Captain Stuart: 
“Mademoiselle must have lunch with us at the Hotel de 
Paris, eh ?” But Lily shok her head very decidedly, and so, 
“Very well. Then I will look after our young lady,” he 
exclaimed in his decided, good-humoured way. “I know 
what you would call 'the ropes’ of Monte Carlo. We will 
now find a nice carriage, and I will accompany her to her 
destination.” 

“I thought of doing that,” said Captain Stuart, a little 
awkwardly. 

M. Popeau shook his head. “No, no ! It is more right, 
more convenable, that I should go. Am I not our friend’s 
temporary guardian ?” 

They all three smiled at what had become by now a special 
little joke, and gratefully Lily followed the two men up the 
broad steps which looked more like those in a palace than in 
a railway station, till they reached the road running through 
the beautiful, tropical-looking gardens, which always seem to 
have an unreal touch of fairyland about them. 

M. Popeau again turned to Captain Stuart: “You will 
not require a carriage,” he said briskly. “The Hotel de 


The Lonely House 


li 

Paris is close by. Tell the manager that you are with me, 
and ask him to give you a good room, with the same view 
as mine. Say I am joining you at dejeuner. Oh, and Mon 
Captaine ? One word more ” 

Captain Stuart turned round. He had not been listening 
to M. Popeau, for his mind was full of the English girl to 
whom he was about to say what he fully intended should 
only be a very temporary farewell. “Yes,’' he said mechani- 
cally. “Thanks awfully.” 

“Listen to me 1” exclaimed M. Popeau imperiously. “You 
are to tell the manager of the Hotel de Paris that our food 
has been — what do you say in England? — filthy for the last 
two days ! Ask him to arrange that a lunch of surpassing 
excellence is ready in forty minutes from now. Can I trust 
you to do this, my friend ?” He spoke so gravely that Lily 
began to laugh. 

“You are greedy,” she said reprovingly. “You make me 
feel quite sorry I didn’t accept your offer!” 

“There’s still plenty of time to change your mind!” ex- 
claimed both men simultaneously. 

“My friends will have waited lunch for me.” She did feel 
sorry that she could not go along with these kind people and 
have a good lunch before meeting Count and Countess Polda. 
But not for nothing had her Uncle Tom always called her, 
fondly, his dear old-fashioned girl. 

She held out her hand to Captain Stuart. He took it in 
his big grasp, and held it perhaps a moment longer than she 
expected, but at last : 

“Good-bye,” he said abruptly. “Good-bye, Miss Fairfield. 
Let me see — to-day is Saturday. I wonder if I might call 
on you to-morrow, Sunday?” 

“Yes, do,” she said a little shyly. “You’ve got the address ? 
La Solitude?” 

It was nice to know that they would meet again to- 
morrow. 


CHAPTER II 


A S for M. Popeau, who was looking about him trying 
to find out if any changes had taken place in five 
very long years, he was telling himself, for perhaps 
the thousandth time in his life, what very queer, odd people 
the British were ! 

He liked them, even better than ne naa done when, as a 
young man, he had met with a good deal of kindness in 
England. But still, how queer to think that a nice girl — 
a really nice girl — should permit such a stranger as was this 
Captain Stuart to call on her — without any kind of proper 
introduction. He hoped her Italian friends — or were they 
relations? — would not misunderstand. He feared they cer- 
tainly would do so, unless she pretended — but somehow he 
did not think she would do that — that the young man was 
an old acquaintance, someone who had known her at home, 
in her uncle’s house. 

And then his quaint, practical French mind began to 
wonder whether Captain Stuart was well off — whether^ his 
affections wefe already engaged — whether, in a word, he 
would, or would not, make a suitable husband for this so 
charming girl? 

Sad to say, M. Popeau’s peculiar walk in life during the 
war-worn years had made him acquainted with the fact 
that it sometimes happens that quite delightful-looking Eng- 
lishmen are capable of behaving in a very peculiar manner 
when in a foreign country, and when in love ! 

He turned around abruptly. Captain Stuart was already 
some way off; and the Frenchman’s eyes softened as they 
rested on the slender figure of the girl now standing by his 
side. She looked so fresh, so neat, too — in spite of the long, 
weary, dirty journey from Paris. 

15 


fi6 The Lonely House 

Lily, who, when she thought of her appearance at all, 
was rather disagreeablely aware that she was clad in a pre- 
war coat and skirt, would have been surprised and pleased 
had she known how very well dressed she appeared in this 
middle-aged Frenchman’s eyes — ^how much he approved of 
the scrupulously plain black serge coat and skirt and neat 
little toque — how restful they seemed after the showy 
toilettes and extraordinary-looking hats worn by the fair, 
and generally eccentric, Parisiennes with whom fate brought 
him in constant contact. 

A victoria drawn by two wiry-looking, raw-boned little 
steeds dashed down upon them. M. Popeau put up his hand, 
and the horses drew up on their haunches. 

Giving the porter a very handsome tip, M. Popeau helped 
Lily into the carnage and then got in himself. “La Solitude !” 
he called out to the driver. 

The man pointed with his whip to the mountain sky-line. 

“Twenty-five francs,” he exclaimed, “and that only because 
I wish to oblige monsieur and madame ! I ought to ask fifty 
francs. It’s a devil of a pull up there !” He rapped out the 
words with an extraordinary amount of gesticulation. 

Lily had had some trouble in following what he said, but 
her experience with the Belgians stood her in good stead. A 
pound for what she believed must be a short drive? That 
seemed a great deal. 

She turned in some distress to her companion. “Pray 
don’t come with me,” she exclaimed. “The man will take 
me there all right. I quite understood all he said.” 

“Of course I’m going to take you there,” said M. Popeau. 
“My lunch will taste all the better for a little waiting. But 
you? Will you not change your mind and come and lunch 
at the Hotel de Paris, mademoiselle?” 

Poor Lily! She felt sorely tempted. But she shook her 
head. 

And then something rather curious happened. A taxicab 
passed slowly by. M. Popeau stood up and hailed it. He 
took out of his pocket-book a dirty ten-franc note. “Here, 


The Tonely House 17 

my friend/’ he said, addressing their astonished driver, “it 
is too great a pull for your gallant little steeds, so we will take 
that taxi. Help me to transfer the young lady’s luggage.” 

No sooner said than done, in spite of a very sulky protest 
from the taxi-driver, who had not the slightest wish to take 
on a new fare. He had brought a party out to Monte Carlo 
from Mentone, and was going back there. 

“You should be glad, very glad indeed, my good boy,” 
exclaimed M. Popeau, “to have the chance of earning 
twenty-five francs by a few moments’ drive. Come, come, 
be amiable about it! You know perfectly well that you 
are bound to take me by the law.” 

“Not in Monaco,” said the man sullenly. “The law is 
not the same in France as in Monaco.” 

“If you are a Monegasque,” exclaimed M. Popeau, “then 
you must be well acquainted with my friend, M. Bouton.” 

The man’s manner changed, and became suddenly cring- 
ing. 

“Aha! I thought so!” M. Popau turned to Lily. “My 
friend Bouton is Police Commissary here,” he observed 
significantly. 

“Where do you want me to go?” asked the man, in a 
resigned tone. 

“To La Solitude.” 

Without any more ado the taxicab turned round and 
started at a speed which seemed to Lily very dangerous. It 
was a whirlwind rather than a drive. But once they had left 
the beautiful gardens, and were through the curious net- 
work of town streets which lie behind the Casino grounds, 
the man slowed down, and soon they were breasting the hill 
up what was little more than a rough, dry, rutted way 
through orange groves and olive trees. 

“Turn your head round,” said M. Popeau suddenly, “and 
then you will see, my dear lady, one of the six most beauti- 
ful views in the world, and yet one which comparatively 
few of the visitors to Monte Carlo ever take the trouble to 
climb up here and enjoy.” , 


1 8 The Lonely House 

Lily obeyed, and then she uttered an exclamation of delight 
at the marvellou^ panorama of sea, sky, and delicate vivid, 
green-blue vegetation which lay below and all about her. 
Monte Carlo, with its white palaces, looked like a town in 
fairyland. 

Up and up they went, along winding ways cut in the 
mountain side. Even M. Popeau was impressed by the 
steepness of the gradient, and the distance traversed by 
them. 

All at once the taxi took a sudden turn to the left and 
drew up on a rough clearing surrounded by old, grey olive 
trees. The atmosphere was strangely still, and though it 
was a hot day, Lily suddenly felt chilly — a touch, no doubt, 
of the mountain air. There crept over her, too, a queer, eerie 
feeling of utter loneliness. 

‘^Your friends have certainly well named their villa ! Even 
I, who thought I knew the whole principality of Monaco 
more or less well, never came across this remote and lonely 
spot.” 

*‘This is the most convenient point by which a carriage 
can approach the villa,” said the driver turning round. “The 
house is not far — just a few yards up through the trees.” 

“All right Get down and help me carry the lady’s 
luggage.” 

The man loaded himself up with Lily’s small trunk, and 
M. Popeau took a big Gladstone bag she had had on the 
journey. “Please don’t do that !” she exclaimed. “The man 
can come back presently for the bag. I’ll give him a good 
tip in addition to the twenty-five francs.” 

“Nonsense !” said M. Popeau, quite sharply for him. “Of 
course this cab is my affair. It’s going to take me back to 
the Hotel de Paris. I intend to give the driver thirty francs 
— I had no idea it was as far.” 

At the top of a row of steps cut in the rocky bank was a 
wicket gate, on which were painted in fast-fading Roman 
letters the word “La Solitude.” 

The cabman opened the gate, and the three passed through 


The Lonely House 19 

into a grove of orange trees. Soon the steep path broadened 
into a way leading straight on to a lawn which fell sharply 
away from the stone terrace which formed the front of a 
long, low, white-washed house. 

In a sense, as M. Popeau’s shrewd eyes quickly realised. 
La Solitude had an air of almost gay prosperity. It was 
clear that the bright green shutters, those of the six windows 
of the upper storey and those of the windows which opened 
on to the terrace, had but recently been painted. 

Two blue earthenware jars, so large that they might well 
have formed part of the equipment of the Forty Thieves, 
stood at either end of the terrace, their comparatively narrow 
necks being filled with luxuriant red geranium plants, which 
fell in careless trails and patches of brilliant colour on the 
flagstones. 

Built out at a peculiar angle, to the left of the villa, was a 
windowless square building which looked like a studio. 

Lily was surprised to see that every window on the ground 
floor of the house had its blind drawn down, and that above 
the ground floor every window was shuttered. But that, as 
any foreigner could have told her, had nothing strange about 
it. Most people living in Southern Europe have an instinct 
for shutting out the sun, even the delightful sun of a southern 
winter day. Still, to Lily’s English eyes the drawn blinds 
and closed shutters gave a deserted, eerie, unlived-in look to 
La Solitude. 

As they all three stood there, M. Popeau and the driver 
having put down the luggage for a moment on the hard, dry 
grass, the first sign of life at La Solitude suddenly appeared 
in the person of a huge black and white cat. It crept slowly, 
stealthily, round the left-hand corner of the house, intent on 
some business, or victim, of its own, and rubbed itself along 
the warm wall. 

Lily felt a little tremor of surprise and discomfort. It was 
an odd coincidence that she should have seen in her dream- 
nightmare just such a cat as was this cat now moving so 
stealthily across her line of vision ! 


20 The Lonely House 

“The front door is to the right/’ said the driver. 

They walked along the terrace, and Lily began to feel 
very much distressed and worried. Supposing the Count 
and Aunt Cosy had gone off on a week-end visit? Would 
their servants have left the house entirely alone? She feared 
the answer to this question might easily be “Yes.” 

The entrance to La Solitude was just a plain, green-painted 
door let into the bare house wall. 

iM. Popeau rang the old-fashioned iron bell-pull, and its 
strident tone seemed to tear across the intense stillness which 
enveloped them; and then they waited what seemed to all 
three a considerable time. 

“I think,” said M. Popeau, smiling suddenly all over his 
fat, pale, good-natured face, “that you will be compelled to 
come back with me and eat that good luncheon ordered by 
Captain Stuart, Miss Fairfield !” 

But even as he said the words the door opened slowly, 
and an old woman, dressed very neatly in a faded blue print 
dress, with a yellow silk bandana handkerchief tightly 
wound round her head, stood, unsmiling, before them. 

M. Popeau took command. 

“This young lady has just arrived from England to stay 
with the Comte and Comtesse Polda,” he said pleasantly. 

“We did not expect the lady till the day after to-morrow. 
Please come this way.” 

She spoke quite civilly, but there was no glimmer of 
welcome on her thin, drawn-looking face. M. Popeau noticed 
that her intonation was pleasantly refined. 

The driver put down, just inside the door, the luggage he 
had been carrying, and went off back to his taxi, while Lily 
and M. Popeau followed the old woman down the corridor. 
She opened a door to the left, and stood aside for the 
strangers to pass through into what seemed at first a com- 
pletely darkened room. But with the words, “I will go and 
tell Madame la Comtesse you are here,” she went and drew 
up one of the opaque yellow blinds. 

Lily Fairfield, tired, hungry as she was, looked round with 


The Lonely House ^ 

an eager sensation of curiosity, and, to tell the truth, she 
was exceedingly surprised and interested by what she saw. 

The drawing-room of La Solitude was indeed strangely 
furnished and arranged — to English eyes. Considering the 
size of the villa, it was a large room, long, and in a sense 
lofty, with four French windows opening on to the stone 
terrace. As the windows were all shut there was a slightly 
muggy, disagreeable smell in the room. The old Italian 
furniture, arranged stiffly round the room, was upholstered 
in faded tapestry which had obviously been darned with 
skill and care. 

The whitewashed walls were hung with faded Turkey-red 
cloth, a fact which, to Lily’s eyes, added to the strangeness 
of the room, though, as a matter of fact, this material is a 
very usual, if old-fashioned, wall covering, in all French 
provincial towns and country houses. It formed a not un- 
suitable background to a number of mediaeval and 
eighteenth-century portraits. 

M. Popeau, who was looking round him with almost as 
much interest and curiosity as his young companion, realised, 
even in the poor light, that there was not what would be 
technically called a good — ^that is, a valuable — picture in the 
room. But he also told himself that they were genuine fam- 
ily portraits, proving that Count Polda — for he took the strik- 
ing, sometimes sinister-looking, long-dead faces staring down 
at him to be the Count’s ancestors — ^had a right to his title. 

Between the windows hung two superb gilt mirrors in 
beautiful carved and gilt wood floreated frames. They, and 
an ebony and ivory cabinet, were the only things of real value 
in the room. A shabby card-table, on which there lay, face 
upwards, some not very clean patience cards, stood near the 
farthest window. 

There came the sound of quick steps in the corridor. The 
door opened, and Lily Fairfield beheld, for the first time for 
over ten years, the woman who had produced such a brilliant, 
Luring impression on the quiet Epsom household. 

dear child ! What a surprise ! We were not expecting 


22 The Lonely House 

you till and then Countess Polda stopped short, for 

she had suddenly realised that there was someone else in the 
room besides her young kinswoman. 

iM. Popeau advanced, and bowed in that queer, cut-in-half 
way which Lily thought so quaint and funny. “Forgive my 
intrusion, Madame,’' he said civilly. “I have been Mademoi- 
selle’s travelling companion from Paris, and as I am very 
well acquainted with Monte Carlo, while she is quite a 
stranger to this beautiful part of the world, I thought it best 
to escort her to your hospitable house.” 

While this colloquy was going on Lily was feeling more 
and more surprised, for somehow Aunt Cosy looked utterly 
different from what she remembered her as having looked 
twelve years ago. She had then appeared to Lily, a child 
of nine years of age, a very smart, fashionable-looking lady, 
wearing beautiful clothes. She now looked slightly absurd. 

Meanwhile M. Popeau told himself that the Countess must 
once have been extremely handsome. He judged her to be 
about sixty, but she was tall, well built, and looked strong 
and active — in a word, younger than her years. 

She wore a plaid skirt, one of those large patterns dear to 
the Parisienne’s heart. Her plain white blouse was cut like 
a man’s shirt and gave her, to a foreigner’s eye, an English 
look — as did also the now old-fashioned tie-cravat which 
she wore pinned to the blouse with a large emerald pin. 
The pin attracted M. Popeau’s attention, for it was set with 
an emerald which was, in his judgment, of considerable 
value. Doubtless it had belonged to the Count’s father. It 
was the sort of tie-pin a foppish man of wealth and position 
might have worn in the early thirties of the last century. 

But what in a very different way impressed both Lily 
Fairfield and M. Popeau was the Countess’s singular-looking 
face and peculiar eyes. Her face, with its good, clearly- 
marked features and finely-drawn if narrow-lipped mouth, 
was of a most unbecoming colour, a kind of dusky red, which 
M. Popeau knew to mean some form of heart trouble. One 
of her eyes was green, the other blue. 


The Lonely House 23 

She wore a curious and most elaborate “front,” bright 
chestnut-auburn in tint, consisting of masses of tight little 
curls. It was evidently the sort of coiffure which had been 
worn when Countess Polda was a young woman. Now it 
gave a touch of the grotesque to her appearance, the more 
so that when she turned round to shut the door it became 
apparent that she also wore what used, many years ago, to 
be called a “bun.” 

Still, it was evident to M. Popeau that the person now 
standing before him was what is called, in common parlance, 
a woman of the world. She accepted his explanation of his 
presence with amiability, and expressed in well-chosen, vol- 
uble French her gratitude for his kindness to her young niece 
— ^he noticed she said “niece.” 

“It is still to be Aunt Cosy, is it not, dear child ?” she drew 
the surprised Lily affectionately into her strong arms and 
kissed her on both cheeks. “It will be very pleasant, very de- 
lightful, to me and to my husband to have a young and 
charming girl about the house !” she exclaimed. “We are no 

longer young — and the war has made us very lonely ” 

She shook her head sadly. “No one would believe how it 
changed Monte Carlo for a while. But now our old friends — 
English, French, Italian — ^are beginning to return. Already 
the war is being forgotten like a nightmare, a bad dream.” 

They were all three still standing, and M. Popeau told 
himself that it was time he had his own good luncheon — 
and time for his young travelling companion to have hers. 
And then there came over the kind-hearted Frenchman a 
slight feeling of discomfort. Would Miss Fairfield be given 
a good luncheon, supposing the determined-looking lady who 
now stood before him had already had hers, in the foreign 
fashion, a couple of hours ago? 

“I must be going,” he began. “We have had no food, 
any of us. Mademoiselle, also, will be glad of her dejeuner.” 

As only answer the Countess went over to the window of 
which the yellow blind had already been drawn up, and 
with a vigorous movement she opened it. “A’l. tii’ t i > 


24 The Lonely House 

better/’ she exclaimed. ‘7 have all the English love of 
fresh air, but my husband — ^he fears for his pictures — for 
the furniture! Look at our view, my little one — and you, 
too, Monsieur. It is the most splendid view in Monaco!” 

But M. Popeau was not bothering about the view. He 
was looking with some concern at Lily Fairfield. She seemed 
a rather pitiful, lonely little figure, standing there in this 
odd-looking room. Somehow he hated leaving her there! 

But the Countess was still talking, in that full, hearty 
voice of hers. “My husband’s family is of Monaco” — she 
smiled and showed her strong, good teeth. “In the four- 
teenth century they were almost as great people as the 
Grimaldis. Then the Poldas lived in Paris, in Rome, but 
when we lost our fortune, through unlucky speculations, 
it seemed simpler to come back to the Count’s native place. 
Here we have lived — nay, here we have vegetated — ever 
since !” 

When she stopped to take breath, M. Popeau managed 
to get in his good-bye. “I hope,” he said pleasantly, “that 
you will allow me to come and pay my respects to you and 
to Mademoiselle? I will do myself that honour to-morrow, 
Sunday.” 

“We shall always be delighted to see you,” replied the 
Countess heartily. “But.it is a long climb. Still, kind 
friends sometimes take pity on my lonliness. As for my 
husband, he is like a goat, he can climb anywhere, he even 
disdains our good little Monaco carriages.” 

“That reminds me that the taxi we had the luck to find 
is waiting out there just below the orange grove. So I 
will go out this way,” and M. Popeau walked out through 
the open window. 

A few moments later there came the sound of the taxi 
turning round on the clearing below — and an acute feeling 
of loneliness and of depression stole over Lily Fairfield. She 
realised, suddenly, that she was tired out. 

The Countess shut the window firmly, and she pulled 
down the thick yellow blind. Then she turned to her visitor. 


The Lonely House 25 

'‘Now,’' she said, “now, my little one, what is it you would 
like to do ? I am for the moment very busy.” 

Her tone was still affectionate, still pleasant, but Lily felt 
a slight diminution of cordiality. “Perhaps I had better 
ask Cristina to show you your room. English ladies lie down 
a great deal, and you, my poor one, have been ill.” 

“What I should like,” said Lily falteringly, “is some- 
thing to eat, Aunt Cosy. I feel so hungry ” And as 

she saw a look of perplexity, almost of annoyance, pass over 
her hostess’s face, she added hurriedly, “Anything would 
do— some bread-and-butter — a cup of milk — or perhaps an 
egg/' 

“I will see if there is any milk,” said the Countess re- 
luctantly. “Butter, I know we have none — ^there will be 
some, I hope, to-morrow morning. As for an egg — ^yes, I 
believe Cristina did secure two eggs the day before yester- 
day. Your uncle and I, dear child, follow the custom of the 
country ; we have our lunch at eleven. I should have expected 
that you also would have had something to eat at eleven, 
even in the train — but no matter, I will see what can be 
done.” 

She went towards the door. “No, do not follow me” — 
her tone was peremptory. “Stay here for a moment. Yotr 
can be looking at the pictures ; they are of great interest and 
value — ^though, alas! the best were sold long ago to an 
American millionaire.” 

Then a most unlucky thing happened! Though the 
Countess closed the door behind her firmly, the catch did 
not act, and it swung ajar. That being so, Lily could not 
help overhearing the short conversation in French that took 
place between mistress and maid in the passage outside. 


CHAPTER III 


G ome, come, Cristina, the young girl is hungry ! It 
will not take you a moment to boil an egg.” 

‘The fire is out.” 

“That does not matter; you may use my little English 
stove — it will not take many drops of wood spirit to boil 
an egg.” 

And then Lily heard the Countess add in a low, meaning 
tone : “Remember that we are receiving with her a hundred 
and twenty-five francs a week. If she is not satisfied she 
will go. Also, as the Count said only the other day, she may 
be useful to us in other ways.” 

The unwilling listener felt desperately uncomfortable. She 
began moving towards the door, but just at that moment the 
Countess, turning, saw that Lily must have overheard what 
had been said. Her already dusky face darkened. She 
looked excessively annoyed — a vindictive look came into her 
oddly coloured eyes. She evidently thought the English girl 
had been eavesdropping. But with an obvious effort she 
recovered her composure. 

She motioned Lily farther into the darkened room and 
shut the door — ^this time making sure that it was shut. 

“I desire to tell you one or two things,” she said slowly. 
“You are going to be a member of our household for, I 
hope, a long time, dear child — so it is better to cross the t*s 
and to dot the i's, as they say in France. Cristina is not 
only an old and faithful servant — she was my husband’s 
foster-sister. You know what that means?” 

Lily nodded. 

“Thus we do not really regard her as a servant,” went 
on the Countess. “We are both very fond of her. She 
is an excellent creature, but she is not very amiable. I had 

26 


The Lonely House 27 

to tell her that you were coming as a paying guest” — ^the 
Countess made a slight grimace. “Cristina is an old woman, 
and I hope you will not be offended with me when I say 
that I shall be glad if you will help a little in the work of 
the house.” 

“I shall be delighted to do an)^hing I can, Aunt Cosy,” 
said Lily eagerly. “A home was started in Epsom for the 
Belgian refugees, and the ladies of the place took it in turns 
to go in and do the housework.” 

“You have relieved my mind! As I said just now to 
Cristina, I’m sure you will make yourself useful to us, as a 
dear, cherished little daughter might do. How sorry the 
Count will be that he was not at home to welcome you!” 

Lily suddenly felt happier. It was nice of Aunt Cosy to 
have spoken to her so frankly. 

“Do let me go into the kitchen and boil an egg for myself,” 
she exclaimed. 

“Very well,” smiled the Countess. She preceded the girl 
till they came to a narrow passage, cut like a slit in the 
wall, to the right of the corridor. It led into the queerest 
little kitchen Lily had ever seen, and was not much bigger 
than an English bathroom. The stove — if you could call it a 
stove — was one for the exclusive use of charcoal. What 
light there was came from a far from clean skylight. On the 
distempered green walls hung various mysterious-looking 
copper pots and pans, the quaintest being a little roasting- 
machine in which could be cooked a tiny joint, or chicken. 
On the table was an old-fashioned methylated spirit lamp, 
on which there was now poised an enamelled saucepan full 
of water in which was an egg. 

“Unfortunately La Solitude was built against the side 
of the mountain,” said the Countess, “so both the kitchen 
and the dining-room are lit from the sky. But from the 
front of the house we enjoy a view into three countries! 
We are not many yards from the frontier — ^the frontier 
which divides Monaco from F'rance; and straight over the 
sea is Corsica, the cradle of the great Napoleon! To the 


28 


The Lonely House 


left, of course, is Italy, my beloved country, though I count 
myself English, as you know. And now,’’ she concluded, 
“I will leave you in the good care of our excellent Cristina. 
I have some work to finish before to-morrow.” 

When the Countess had gone the old servant laid a clean, 
unbleached napkin across the end of the kitchen table. She 
put out a plate, an egg-cup, salt and pepper, and half a long 
loaf. Then she turned, with a look of apology, to Lily. 

‘‘The dining-room is already prepared for dinner,” she 
said, in her soft, refined voice. “I fear I must ask you. 
Mademoiselle, to eat your egg here.” 

' “Of course I will,” exclaimed Lily. “And, Cristina, I 
hope you will allow me to help you a little in the house- 
work 

A curious look — was it of surprise or gratitude ? — ^perhaps 
something of both — quivered for a moment over Cristina’s 
pale face. “You are very good,” she said quietly. “There 
is a good deal of work sometimes — when we have visitors.” 

The water was now boiling, and as she spoke she took 
the egg out of the saucepan, and put it deftly into the egg- 
cup. And then, after Lily had sat down, the old woman 
stood and watched her eat. Had not the girl been so very 
hungry she would have felt a little shy and awkward under 
that silent, tense scrutiny. 

Cristina suddenly observed: “I suppose Mademoiselle is 
a Protestant?” 

Lily looked up. “Yes, of course I am.” 

A sad look came over Cristina’s face. “Mademoiselle 
looks so good, so pure,” she murmured. “I thought per- 
haps that Mademoiselle was thinking of being a nun.” 

“Oh, no, indeed I’m not!” Lily laughed outright, foi; 
the first time in this strange house. 

“I myself,” said Cristina slowly, “at one time hoped to 
be a nun.” And then, clasping her hands, and with an 
emotion which transformed her quietude into something 
>vhich greatly startled Lily, so violent and unexpected was 
it, her pale face became convulsed. “The devil prevented 


The Lonely House 29 

my becoming a nun. But for the devil I should now be a 
good and perhaps even a holy woman !” 

Her breast heaved — she seemed extraordinarily moved and 
distressed. 

Lily jumped up — not perhaps quite so surprised as she 
would have been but for some of her experiences with the 
more emotional Belgians. “I’m quite sure that you are a 
very good woman,” she said kindly. 

But Cristina shook her head with an air of ineifable sad- 
ness and distress. 

The kitchen door opened suddenly and Lily was astounded 
to see the change that came over the old waiting woman. 
She became coldly rigid; her look of agitation disappeared 
as if by magic. 

She turned round: “Madame la Comtesse?” she said 
inquiringly, almost forbiddingly. 

“Only to say, Cristina, that I’m going down the hill a 
little way to try and meet Monsieur le Comte. He will be 
loaded, as you know, with all manner of good things.” The 
speaker smiled, showing a row of strong, white teeth. “Will 
you show Mademoiselle her room?” She turned to Lily. 
“And you, dear child ? Have you had a nice fresh egg ?” 

Without waiting for an answer she turned and left the 
little dark kitchen. 

Cristina waited, listening, and then, when she heard the 
front door, at the end of the corridor, close to : “Are you 
really her relation?” she asked slowly. “You are not at all 
like her.” 

'^No: I’m not really related to the Countess.” Had she 
been more at home in French she would have tried to explain 
the peculiar connection. Meanwhile a pleased look came over 
old Cristina’s face. “I thought not!” she exclaimed. 

There was a pause. Lily was telling herself with some 
amusement that, however fond the Countess might be of 
Cristina, Cristina was not over fond of the Countess. And 
yet how very nicely Aunt Cosy had spoken of the old 
woman ! 


30 The Lonely FJouse 

Suddenly the huge cat, which had been the first living 
thing seen by Lily , Fairfield at La Solitude, came noiselessly 
into the kitchen. 

“Here is Mimi,” exclaimed Cristina. “He is so faithful, 
so intelligent ! He follows me about like a dog.’’ She 
stooped and picked up Mimi. “Say good-day to Mademoi- 
selle!” &he said caressingly, but, as Lily drew near, the cat 
suddenly spat and swore. 

Cristina put the creature down. “He is jealous,” she 
said. “He perceives that I am going to love Mademoiselle.” 
And sure enough, Mimi walked away with offended dignity. 

“Before we go upstairs would Mademoiselle like to see 
the dining-room?” asked the old woman. 

And then the girl had another of the surprises which 
seemed to be always meeting her in this curious French 
house — for she thought of Monaco as being part of France; 
which of course it is not. Turning the key in a door at the 
end of the corridor, Cristina stepped aside while Lily walked 
through into what struck her as a gloomy, and yet, in its 
way, a splendid room, and she realised suddenly that it was' 
the windowless building she had seen from the lawn. 

Through a circular skylight there fell a softened light on 
the beautiful old tapestry, moth-eaten in places, with which 
the walls were hung; and in the centre of the room was a 
round table, now spread with a lace tablecloth. It was set 
for three, a lace d’oyley marking each place, as did also three 
sets of exquisite old cut-glass goblets of varying sizes. In 
the middle of the table was a gold vase containing a bunch 
of brilliant coloured blossoms, such as may be bought any- 
where along the Riviera for a few pence. They made a 
charming note of colour in the large room, and gave an air 
of festivity to the well-arranged dining-table. 

The only other furniture in the apartment was a set of 
six tapestry-covered chairs, and a yellow marble sideboard 
with gilt legs. 

On the sideboard were now set out three green and gold 
dessert plates, with Venetian glass finger-bowls on them. 


The Eonely House 31 

and two graceful, delicately-painted dessert dishes were 
placed ready for fruit. 

Lily was rather surprised to see that there were no fewer 
than six cut-glass and coloured decanters filled with various 
wines and liqeurs, standing in a row behind the fruit plates. 

Cristina stood by, looking at her expectantly. 

“What beautiful tapestries, and — and what a lovely table- 
cloth,’* said Lily at last. 

She felt bewildered. She had never seen anything quite 
like this before. It was the sort of dining-table that she 
would have expected to see laid out in a palace. “The 
glasses must be very valuable,” she said admiringly. “I 
once saw a much less nice set, very like these, in a famous 
collection of cut glass.” 

“I suppose I must now lay a fourth place,” said Cristina 
slowly. And then she added: “Mademoiselle was not ex- 
pected till the day after to-morrow. Perhaps the Count will 
put ofif the visitor.” 

“Who is coming to dinner — a. lady or a gentleman?” 
asked Lily pleasantly. 

Cristina hesitated a moment — and then, “A gentleman,” 
she answered. 

The old woman led the English girl back into the corridor. 
A short, ladder-like staircase led to the upper floor of the 
villa. The storey above was divided like that below, by a 
corridor which ran right down the middle of the house. 

Cristina took up the bunch of keys which hung at her 
girdle. “I sleep there,” she said, pointing to the first door 
to the right, “and Mademoiselle here.” 

She unlocked the first door to their left, and ushered 
Lily into a room which impressed the girl as curiously dark 
and gloomy. But she soon saw the reason for that. The 
one window gave on to a stretch of deep, barren, heath- 
covered hill. Only by craning her head right out of the 
window could she see the sky. Below was a small, oblong 
yard, bounded by an outhouse. 

Within the room, an old-fashioned mahogany bed of the 


32 The Lonely House 

‘ low, curved Empire shape stood against the left wall. By 
the tiny fireplace was a shabby armchair upholstered in some 
kind of discoloured green material. There was no hanging 
cupboard; only a row of wooden pegs on the door. A pair 
of splendid brocaded silk and velvet curtains, looped up by 
the window, gave a touch of incongruous grandeur. 

The room looked very unhomelike, and Lily suddenly felt 
sad and dispirited. “I think I will try and get a little sleep, 
so will you kindly call me, Cristina, when you think I ought 
to get up?” She hesitated a moment. ‘‘Does Aunt Cosy 
have afternoon tea?” she asked. 

“Only when visitors are expected.” ” And then Cristina 
added, “We have no tea in the house now.” 

“I have brought a little,” said Lily quickly ;“about two 
pounds.” 

Cristina went over to the window and drew the Heavy 
curtains together, and then she slipped noiselessly from the 
room. 


CHAPTER IV 


W HEN Lily awoke four hours later it took her a 
moment or two to realise where she was. 

Jumping up, she drew back the curtains, and 
opened the window wide. Twilight was falling, and the 
stretch of heath-covered hillside looked dark, almost for- 
bidding. She felt suddenly cold, and shivered as she drew 
back into the barely-furnished room. 

Then she did her unpacking, quickly and methodically, 
and after a moment of hesitation put on a white gown. It 
was a white stockinette skirt and jumper, the sort of dress 
she would have changed into if she and Uncle Tom and 
Aunt Emmeline, in the old happy days, had been having some 
old friend to dinner. It was the first time she had worn 
anything but black since her aunt’s death, and she felt a 
little pang of remorse as she took up a black ribbon and put 
it round her slender, rounded waist. She did not want the 
Countess to think that she had forgotten dear Aunt 
Emmeline. 

And then Lily bethought herself that it was rather strange 
that Aunt Cosy had said nothing about eiher Uncle Tom 
or her own late step-sister. The girl could not help feeling 
that her unexpected arrival had put out both Aunt Cosy 
and old Cristina very much. But Cristina had quite got 
over it ; somehow Lily felt that she and Cristina were going 
to be friends. 

She was not quite so sure about Aunt Cosy! To tell the 
truth, the Countess was already a disappointment to the 
girl; she was so unlike Lily’s recollection of her. She did 
not sufficiently allow for the great difference between her 
two selves — ^that between a shy, romantic child, and an 
observant, grown-up girl. 


33 


34 The Lonely House 

With regard to the man she knew she would be expected 
to call Uncle Angelo, Lily was quite unprejudiced, for she 
had never seen him, and had no idea what he was like. She 
hoped deep in her heart that he would be quite unlike Aunt 
Cosy. 

She glanced at herself in the plain, discoloured mirror 
above the empty fireplace. Yes, her hair was quite tidy, 
and the long sleep had done her good. Already the magic 
change of scene was beginning to work. After all, she was 
not going to be here for very long — ^three months would go 
by very quickly, and it was pleasant to feel that she had, 
at any rate, two friends near by, for so she could not help 
considering Hercules Popeau and Captain Stuart. 

Captain Stuart had asked her if she played tennis. There 
were tennis-courts of sorts at Monte Carlo — so he had said 
with a very pleasant smile. Like so many young Scots, he 
had a delightful smile. It quite transformed his keen, 
though ful, serious face. 

At kst she opened her door, and looked with some curi- 
osity up and down the corridor. Four closed doors to her 
right evidently led into rooms which must have that won- 
derful view over which the Countess had waxed so en- 
thusiastic. Lily was sorry Aunt Cosy hadn’t given her one 
of those front rooms. It would have been nice to have, had 
that beautiful view spread out before her, instead of only 
the bare mountain. 

She walked lightly down the staircase, and then she 
waited a moment, wondering a little what she ought to do. 

At last she opened a door which she knew led into the 
drawing-room. It was empty, and the blinds had all been 
drawn up, probably one of the windows had been left open, 
for the room no longer felt stuffy. 

She walked over to one of the windows, and then she 
could not help giving a little gasp of surprise, for, walking 
so softly that she had not heard the cat-like footsteps, some- 
one had followed her into the room and now stood, silent, 
by her side— 


The Lonely House' 35 

It was — it must be — Uncle Angelo! 

Count Polda was a quaint, dried-up-looking little man. 
His body was very thin, and yet his pallid face was fat. He 
was looking at Lily with a fixed, considering look. 

“Uncle Angelo?” she said shyly, and then held out her 
hand. 

He took her little soft hand in both of his podgy 
ones. 

“This is Lili?” he said in French. “Welcome to La 
Solitude.” And then he dropped her hand, and with the 
words, “You play Patience — ^hein?” he turned to the card- 
table, and began moving the cards. 

“No, IVe never played yet.” 

“You will learn — you will learn.” Uncle Angelo spoke 
in a preoccupied tone. “It passes the time away,” he said, 
and, still standing, he played the Patience through. But he 
did not pull it off, and Lily had the uncomfortable sensation 
that he attributed his bad luck to her presence. 

Suddenly he raised his voice: “Cosy! Cosy!” he called 
out fretfully. 

The door was pushed open suddenly. 

“Yes, my friend,” said the Countess. She also had 
changed her dress, and now wore a purple tea-gown, and a 
handsome if old-fashioned-looking necklace composed of 
various large, coloured stones. 

“Mr. Ponting will soon be here now,” said Uncle Angelo. 
“Is not that so? Is everything prepared?” 

“Certainly, my friend.” Aunt Cosy spoke with a touch 
of impatience. “Cristina and I have got everything ready. 
I think you will have a good dinner. And so will our dear 
little Lily” — she drew near the girl, and put a big, powerful 
arm caressingly round Lily’s shoulders. “There was noth- 
ing to eat in the house when this dear child arrived! But 
to-night there is a banquet. The friend who is coming to 
dinner is going a long journey,” she said smilingly, “and 
so we want to give him what in England is called a good 
send-off.” 


36 iThe Lonely House 

Uncle Angelo looked round at his wife. ‘‘An excellent 
expression/’ he said slowly. 

The Countess took her arm from Lily’s neck. ‘Ts it not 
a beautiful view?” 

And Lily, in heartfelt tones, replied, ‘Tndeed it is. Aunt 
Cosy I” 

The vast expanse of evening sky was turquoise blue, the 
sea a deep aquamarine; and the trees, grass, and huge 
geranium blossoms just outside on the terrace had turned to 
soft greys and purples. 

Suddenly Lily bethought herself that she had not yet 
asked after the son of the house. ‘T hope you have good 
news of Beppo?” she said a little timidly. 

And then, to her surprise, there came over Aunt Cosy a 
curious transformation. It was as though she became again 
what Lily remembered her as having been in those far-away 
days at Epsom. She became cordial, affectionate — ^the touch 
of affectation which so disagreeably impressed her young 
companion slid off from her as if it were a cloak. 

“How nice of you to remember him!” she exclaimed. 
“What talks you and I used to have about him, little Lily! 
My beloved Beppo! How I long for you to see him. But 
I fear he will not be here for some time. Perhaps after 
the New Year he will come and spend a week with his old 
father and mother. He is the best of sons !” 

She turned round and said something very quickly in 
French to her husband, the purport of which was: “Lily 
has just asked me about our beloved son. I have been 
telling her what a good fellow he is.” 

Lily was touched to see how Uncle Angelo’s fat, placid 
face altered. 

‘'He is an excellent boy,” he said quaintly. “The King 
of Italy thinks much of our Beppo. Some day Beppo will 
be what you call a — what? — a great man! He is already 
adding lustre to our name.” 

“How sorry he must be that he was not well enough to 
fight,” said Lily shyly. 


The Lonely House 


37 


“He saw the Front,” said the Countess quickly. “He was 
there for two whole weeks. I will show you his picture in 
uniform.” 

She left the room for a couple of minutes, and then came 
back with a photograph in her hand. “Is he not handsome ?” 
she said eagerly. 

Lily gazed at Beppo Polda’s portrait with a good deal 
of interest. Yes, he had grown up into a very good-looking 
young man. He had his mother’s good features, and he 
was evidently tall. Yet he was fairer than Lily supposed 
most Italians were. 

“He is very English-looking, is he not ?” said the Countess 
in a pleased voice. 

“English-looking?” repeated Lily, surprised — ^to her 
eyes he looked singularly un-English-looking, but then 
perhaps that was owing to the way in which his hair was 
cut. 

“My grandmother was an Englishwoman,” went on the 
Countess, “that is why I am so fair, that is why Beppo him- 
self is fair — fair and tall. Beppo is considered one of the 
handsomest men in Rome. To-morrow I will show you a 
picture of Beppo on his horse. He is one of the great hunt- 
ers, is my boy,” said the Countess proudly. “He is quite in 
the English set. There is no body exercise in which he is 
not an adept — ^he can even play cricket.” 

Lily smiled. She liked Aunt Cosy much better than she 
did a quarter of an hour ago. 

“Aunt Cosy?” she suddenly exclaimed. “Uncle Tom gave 
me fifty pounds in banknotes, and I think I had better ask 
you to keep the money for me. You can give me £S from 
time to time.” 

“Fifty pounds! But how dangerous, dear child! There 
are many brigands about, especially since the war ended.” 

The Countess held out her hand, and Lily took the little 
leather case out of her bag. 

“Angelo, where shall we keep this dear child’s money?” 

“In here,” he said briefly, and going over to the ebony and 


38 


The Lonely House 


ivory cabinet he unlocked it. Then he took the leather case 
and placed it in one of the drawers. Finally he shut the two 
folding doors of the cabinet and locked it up, putting the 
key back into a shabby purse which he had taken out of his 
pocket. 

‘T hope our friend Ponting has not elected to spend his 
last evening in the Rooms,” he said uneasily. But his wife 
answered, ‘‘No, no! Were that so we should have heard. 
Ah, there he is !’’ 

Lily looked out of the window, near which she was still 
standing, and in the now growing darkness she saw a tall 
figure come striding across the lawn. 

The Countess opened the long French window, and Lily 
stepped back, instinctively, to allow her to greet her 
visitor. 

He was a big, fair, loose-limbed man, and over his dress- 
clothes he wore a big, sporting-looking coat. 

There was a quick interchange of words. She heard the 
stranger say, speaking with what seemed to her an American 
accent, “You’ll have to be angry with me. Countess, for I’ve 
come to say that I can’t stay to dinner.” 

And an exclamation of something like sharp displeasure 
did come from the Countess’s lips. 

“I know I’ve behaved badly — but there it is! Some fel- 
lows have persuaded me to spend my last evening with 
them. You’ve been so kind to me I felt as if I must come up 
and tell you myself. I’ve got a carriage waiting for me down 
there.” 

Both the Count and Countess expostulated more angrily 
than seemed quite civil. And then the Countess called out 
rather imperiously: '“Lily, come and be introduced to our 
friend, Mr. George Ponting.” 

The girl came forward, smiling a little, as the visitor 
stepped over the threshold of the window. 

He held out his hand, and Lily noticed that he was wear- 
ing a gold bangle. “Why, who are you ?” he asked abruptly. 
“And where did you come from?” 


The Lonely House 39 ' 

Lily was amused. ‘‘My name is Lily Fairfield/’ she said. 
“I come from England. I arrived to-day. I’m going to 
stay at La Solitude for some time.” 

“We had promised her such a delightful evening in your 
pleasant, amusing company,” said the Countess vexedly. 

Mr. Ponting looked disturbed and sorry. “I didn’t know 
you had asked a lady to meet me,” he muttered. 

He kept looking at Lily — it was rather a pathetic, hungry 
kind of a look. “It’s a long time,” he said, “since I’ve 
spoken to a young English lady. To my mind, foreigners 
don’t count — I only care for the girls of the Old Country.” 

And then the Countess began to speak, kindly, persua- 
sively. “Why not stop, Mr. Ponting? It will be better for 
you than having — what is the word? — a rowdy evening, and 
perhaps losing more of your good money.” 

“The path of true wisdom would probably be not to join 
those chaps to-night, eh. Countess?” He looked oddly un- 
decided. “It does seem nice up here,” he muttered. 

“Dear friend, do me the pleasure of staying ! Do not throw 
us over. See, my little Lily is longing for you to stay ! My 
husband will go and pay off your driver.” 

And so it was settled, almost in a few moments, that Mr. 
Ponting would stay and dine at La Solitude. 

The Count stepped out of the window, then he called 
out, “Shall I tell the man to come Lack for you at about half- 
past ten?” 

“Yes. I’ll be obliged if you will. There’s a good train 
at eleven into Nice. I’m sleeping there to-night, and am off 
across the blue sea to-morrow.” 

Already the Count was disappearing down . the path 
through the orange grove. 

“Will you excuse me for a few moments?” said the 
Countess. “Lily, will you entertain Mr. Ponting?” 

She sfiut the door, leaving the two young people alone 
together — not that Mr. Ponting was a young man in Lily’s 
eyes. As a matter of fact he was rather under than over 
forty. 


40 iThe Lonely House 

“They’re awfully kind people,” Mr. Pouting began at once 
in a confidential tone. “They’ve been ever so good to me the 
fast few weeks ! I’m a lonely chap, and the first time I came 
up to this cute little place, well, it was like heaven after the 
sort of gang I’d got in with down there.” 

“I suppose you’re American,” said Lily politely. 

“American?” he coloured, slightly offended. “No — not I. 
I’m British, for all I come from Pernambuco.” 

He went on talking eagerly, evidently liking the sound of 
his own voice, and delighting in his attractive listener. 

After a very few minutes Lily felt as if she knew all about 
Mr. George Pouting. How, though he had spent all his 
youth building up a good business in Pernambuco, he had 
started for the Old Country on August 6, 1914. How awfully 
lonely he had felt in England, not knowing a soul. But how 
he had been all right once he got out to Flanders. How, 
though three times badly wounded, he was now as sound as 
a bell. Finally, how he had come to the Riviera to see a little 
of the world before going home and starting work again, and 
how he had found a pal, a splendid chap, who was sailing 
with him from Marseilles to-morrow night ! 

It was a simple, usual little story, no doubt, yet it touched 
Lily, and made her manner very kind. 

Suddenly Mr. Pouting took out of his pocket a shabby 
shagreen case. He opened it and held it out to her. On the 
worn black velvet lay a small gold box, exquisitely chased 
in different coloured golds. 

“Pretty thing, isn’t it?” he said complacently. “ Twould 
do for stamps — ^that’s what I said to myself, though I believe 
it was what people used to keep snuff in — queer idea, wasn’t 
it?” 

“Yes,” said Lily, smiling; “I think it is the prettiest little 
box I’ve ever seen!” 

He opened it, and showed her engraved inside the lid the 
words, “Mon coeur a toi. Ma vie au Roi.” 

“Say!” he exclaimed. “Will you have it? Just as a 
souvenir, you know!” 


The Lonely House 41 

Lily shook her head. She could not take so costly a gift 
from a complete stranger. 

'‘I know it's good,” went on her companion quickly, ‘‘for 
a chap who they say is a big Paris curiosity-dealer offered 
me five hundred francs for it this afternoon. I got it in a 
queer way. A poor old soul whom I noticed playing at the 
Rooms — ^the sort of woman who isn't up to Club form — 
came up to me last evening and asked if I’d give her a hun- 
dred francs for it. I'm sorry now that I only gave her that 
much ! It must be worth a good bit more than five hundred 
francs if a dealer offered that for it.” 

He was still holding out the little shagreen case. “Look 
here,” he exclaimed again, “you take it — do !” 

Lily shook her head decidedly. “I shouldn't care to have 
anything so valuable, for I've no place to keep anything of 
that sort here,” she said a little awkwardly. “I've even had 
to ask the Countess to keep the money I brought from Eng- 
land.” 

“Is that so?” he exclaimed. “But this little box isn't as 
valuable as all that ! Do take it. Miss Fairfield.” 

But Lily shook her head again, even more decidedly than 
before. “Honestly, I'd rather not,” she said firmly. 

“All right ! I’ll just give it to the next pretty girl I meet.” 
he looked hurt and angry. 

“Please forgive me!” Lily was really sorry. Was she 
making a fuss about nothing? And yet — and yet she knew 
that the box was worth twenty pounds at least. 

The door opened. “Supper is quite ready,” said the Count, 
in his refined, rather mincing voice. “The Countess awaits 
you in the dining-room.” 

The curious, windowless apartment was lit by candles set 
in four cut-glass candlesticks on the table itself, and by two 
silver candelabra on the sideboard. Silver bowls full of 
delicious hot soup were standing ready on the round table, 
but the rest of the meal was cold. 

The waiting was done deftly and quickly by Cristina ; she 
had put on a lace cap and apron, and she looked a quaint 


42 The Lonely House 

aiid charming figure, in spite of her age. But Lily was con- 
cerned at her look of illness and fatigue. Cristina to-night 
was terribly, unnaturally pale. 

Mr. Ponting, who sat opposite his host, did not need much 
entertaining, for he did all the talking, and ate but little of the 
delicious cold lobster souffle and big game pie which had 
followed the soup. But, as the meal went on, Lily could not 
help noticing uncomfortably that the visitor was drinking 
very freely the three kinds of wine. 

Count Polda did not take any wine himself, but he often 
got up and helped his guest generously. The Countess also 
took wine, but in strict moderation. Once she offered her 
guest water, but he shook his head. 

Lily grew more and more uncomfortable. She wished Mr. 
Ponting would eat more and drink less! She herself was 
dreadfully hungry, and she was the only one of the four 
there who made a really good meal. Rather to her surprise 
there was no sweet, only some fine fruit, and again she was 
the only one of the four who took any of it. And then, at 
last, Cristina brought in coffee. Lily refused to take any. 
She fancied it might keep her awake. 

For perhaps the tenth time Mr. Ponting had begun a long, 
somewhat incoherent speech with the words : ‘‘And now Pll 
tell you a yarn,’’ when Lily saw Aunt Cosy make her a little 
sign, and she got up. 

The visitor looked up with a rather dazed look. “Why,” 
he said thickly, “going already ?” 

“Only to the salon,” said the Countess smoothly. “You and 
the Count, dear friend, will follow us presently.” 

She motioned Lily out in front of her rather mysteriously, 
and then she shut the door. 

“Foolish fellow!” she exclaimed, and there was a touch 
of harsh contempt in her voice. “But still he is amiable, and 
the Count, who is a student of human nature, is amused by 
such a man as Mr. Ponting.” 

Lily said nothing, but she felt annoyed. It was horrid of 
Aunt Cosy to speak like that of kindly, grateful Mr. Ponting. 


The Lonely House 43 

The Countess went on : ‘Tt is sad to see such a fine young 
man drink too much !’’ 

Lily felt depressed, almost miserable. No man when in 
her company had ever become even slightly the worse for 
drink. A touch of resentment with the Count'came over her ; 
why had he gone on filling up Mr. Ponting’s glass? 

Almost as if Aunt Cosy could see into the girl’s mind, she 
exclaimed : ‘‘The second time our friend dined here I said to 
Angelo, ‘We will not let him have so much to drink.’ But he 
actually got up, again and again, and went to the sideboard 
and helped himself. So Angelo, who is nervous about his 
beautiful decanters — they are very rare and could not be re- 
placed under hundreds of francs each — Angela made up his 
mind that he himself would pour out what our guest insisted 
on having 1” 

“It is indeed a pity,” said Lily in a low voice. 

She hated this talk about their guest, and shS dreaded the 
thought of his reappearance in the drawing-room. It was 
therefore with relief that she heard the Countess suddenly 
exclaim: “And now you had better go upstairs and get a 
good long night’s rest, dear child. Are you not sleepy?” 

“Yes,” said Lily. “I do feel sleepy. That’s why I didn’t 
take any coffee.” 

The Countess opened the dressing-room door. “Cristina ?” 
She spoke for once in quite a low voice. 

The old woman emerged at once from the little passage 
leading to the kitchen. “Yes,” she said. “Does Madame la 
Comtesse want anything?” 

And again Lily was struck by Cristina’s deathly pallor. 

“Bring a glass of water for Mademoiselle” — ^the words 
were uttered very curtly. 

And then, rather to Lily’s surprise, there came a touch of 
color in Cristina’s pallid face. She turned away, then came 
back a few moments later with a glass of water in her 
hand. 

“Thank you very much,” said Lily gratefully. This was 
a kind thought of Aunt Cosy. 


44 The Lonely House 

have got a candle already lighted in Mademoiselle's 
room," said Cristina. 

Holding the glass of water, Lily turned to Aunt Cosy to 
say good night. 

‘Take care !" cried the Countess sharply. “You might spiK 
some of that water over my dress. I will not kiss you to- 
night, dear child, but I will make up for it to-morrow !" 

It was clear she was anxious to get rid of the girl before 
the two men came out of the dining-room, and Lily went 
off, quickly, upstairs. 

Her bedroom looked dreary and uncomfortable, very 
unlike her pretty, bright room at The Nest. 

She walked over to the little table by the bed where stood 
a lighted candle, and began drinking the water. It had a 
slight taste, and holding it up to the light she saw that it was 
cloudy. She put it down without drinking any more. After 
all, she did not feel very thirsty. 

She glanced round her — how dark and gloomy the room 
looked ! It smelt stuffy and airless. She turned and pushed 
aside the heavy curtains and saw the window was closely 
shut. She opened it, top and bottom. Ah, that was 
better ! 

And then she looked at the little travelling clock Uncle 
Tom had given her the first time she had left The Nest on 
a visit, years ago. It was just after ten — later than she 
thought — still, she must unpack the rest of her things. 

She had just finished doing so when she heard the noise 
of a door opening and shutting downstairs. That must be 
the Count and Mr. Ponting leaving the dining-room. How 
long they had stayed there 1 

There came the sound of another door opening and shut- 
ting — ^that of the drawing-room. And then Lily suddenly 
bethought herself with some dismay that she had no idea 
when the Count and Countess had breakfast, or at what 
time they would like her to be called. Surely she ought to 
ask Cristina? 

She walked over and opened the door of her bedroom, and 


The Lonely House 45 

at once she heard a voice from below call out, “Is that you, 
Lily ? Do you want an3rthing 

There was a note of apprehension and surprise in Aunt 
Cosy’s accents. 

“I only want to know what time breakfast is.’’ 

‘Tf you will ring, Cristina will bring you a cup of coffee, 
English fashion.” 

The Countess actually came up the staircase. She looked 
flustered and ill at ease, and was gazing at the girl with a 
disturbed expression. “I hoped you would have been asleep 
by now, dear child,” she said. 

“I had to finish unpacking,” Lily said. “I suppose Mr. 
Ponting is just going? Do remember me to him — I didn’t 
say good-bye to him, you know.” 

“I will — I will!” said the Countess hurriedly. “Good- 
night, and sleep well.” 

Something — she could not have told you what — made Lily 
open the door after she had heard the Countess go down the 
steep, narrow stairs. 

And then all at once there came Aunt Cosy’s loud hearty 
voice : “Good-bye, Mr. Ponting, good-bye — and good luck !” 

The words echoed through the quiet house. And Lily, 
now suddenly feeling very, very tired, after the many ad- 
ventures of the day, undressed, said her prayers, and blew 
out the light. She was glad to feel that her first day at La 
Solitude was over, and that a long, quiet night lay in front 
of her. 


CHAPTER V 


I T may have been an hour later when suddenly Lily Fair- 
field sat up in bed. In a moment she knew where she 
was, and yet she did not really feel awake. She told herself 
with a feeling of fear that she was asleep — asleep, as she 
had been asleep that night ten days ago, when she had 
started walking in her sleep, so frightening greatly Uncle 
Tom. 

Something now seemed to be impelling her, almost order- 
ing her, to get up and to begin walking through the silent, 
sleeping house. She fought against the impulse, the almost 
command ; but it was as if a stronger will than her own was 
forcing her to get out of the low, old-fashioned Empire bed. 

She did so, slowly, reluctantly, and then she 'walked auto- 
matically across to the door of the room and opened it. 

Surely she was asleep? Had she been awake she would 
have put on a wrapper before going into the passage. ' As it 
was, she felt impelled to open also the door opposite to that 
of her own room — ^the door which she had been told led into 
the room in which old Cristina, the friend-servant of the 
host and hostess, slept. 

Lily walked blindly on, to the dim patch of light which 
was evidently the window of Cristina’s room. The blind 
was up, but the window was closed. She stared out, but 
she could see nothing, for it was a very dark, moonless 
night, and the great arch of sky above the sea was only 
faintly perceptible. And then, suddenly, Lily knew that 
she was awake, not asleep, for there fell on her ear the sound 
of deadened footsteps floating up from below — that is, from 
the terrace. A moment later she heard the long French 
window of what the Countess called the grand salon open 
quietly. 


46 


The Lonely House ^ 

And then it was that all at once, standing there behind the 
still closed window, Lily remembered her fifty pounds — the 
fifty pounds she had asked Aunt Cosy to keep for her, and 
which she had seen Uncle Angelo put in the ebony and 
ivory cabinet! 

What should she do? Should she fling open the window 
and call out? No, for that would scare the burglars away, 
if burglars they were. 

Lily listened again, intently, and after what seemed to 
her a long, long time, she heard the window below closing 
to, very quietly. Then came the sound of footsteps — it 
seemed to her more than one pair of footsteps — padding 
softly away across the lawn into the wood. Then followed 
a curious, long-drawn-out sound — so faint that she had to 
strain her ears to hear it at all. 

She gave a stifled cry — something had suddenly loomed 
up on the broad ledge the other side of the closed window. 
It was the big cat Mimi — Mimi dragging herself along by 
the w-indow-pane and purring, her green eyes gleaming 
coldly, wickedly, in the night air. 

Frightened and unnerved, Lily turned and felt her way 
through the dark room to the bed. She might at least 
wake Cristina, and tell her what she had heard. She put 
out her hand, and felt the smooth, low pillow — ^then slowly 
her fingers travelled down, and to her intense surprise she 
realised that the bed was empty, and that it had not been 
slept in that night. 

Then she had made a mistake in thinking this room was 
Cristina’s room? She stood and listened — ^there was not a 
sound to be heard now, an eerie silence filled the house. 

She suddenly made up her mind she would do nothing 
till the morning. It would annoy the Countess were she 
to make a fuss now. Already Lily was a little afraid of 
Aunt Cosy. If her money was indeed gone, then it was 
gone! Nothing they could do at this time of night would 
be of any use. 

She walked gropingly across to the door, her eyes by now 


48 The Lonely House 

accustomed to the darkness, and so into the passage. Push- 
ing open her own door, she quietly shut it. Then she went 
over to her window and, parting the curtains, took a deep 
draught of the delicious southern night air. It was extraor- 
dinarily and uncannily still and dark on that side of La 
Solitude. 

She lay down and was soon in a deep, if troubled sleep. 

When Lily Fairfield awoke the next morning she experi- 
enced the curious sensation of not knowing in the least where 
she was. What strange, bare, gloomy room was this? The 
very little she could see of it was illuminated by a shaft of 
dull morning light filtering through the top of the heavy 
velvet and silk curtains drawn across the window. To the 
left of the door was a long, low walnut-wood chest. With 
an inward tremor she told herself that it was like a coffin. 

And then, all at once, she remembered everything! This 
was her bedroom at La Solitude — and yesterday had been 
the beginning of what ought to be quite an exciting and 
interesting experience. 

All that had happened last evening came back to her 
with a rush. Her introduction to that rather rough Mr. 
iGeorge Ponting, who had yet been so kindly, so respectful, 
in his manner to her. She smiled and sighed a little as she 
thought of how hurt he had been at her refusing the beauti- 
ful little gold box. What sort of girl would get that box? 
she wondered. 

Then she went over her queer experience of last night, or 
was it early this morning? It did not seem quite so real 
now as it had been then. Perhaps she had only fancied that 
one of the long drawing-room windows had been opened in 
the night? 

She began to wonder at what time M. Popeau and Cap- 
tain Stuart would come to-day. She did hope Countess Polda 
and her new friends would get on together. Somehow she 
doubted it — ^they were so very different! 

She jumped up and pulled open the curtains. What a 
pity this room had only a view of the small courtyard below 


The Lonely House ^49 

and of the bare hillside above! But she was not likely to 
spend much time in her bedroom. 

During the last two years Lily had always got up ex- 
tremely early because of her war work. She turned towards 
the travelling clock which she had put on the mantelpiece. 
Ten o’clock? Impossible! It must have stopped last night 
— but no, it was ticking away as usual. How dreadful that 
she should have so overslept herself ! Dreadful, and yet, 
after all, natural, after all those days of travel. 

And then she looked at the glass, the contents of which 
she had not drunk the night before. There was a white 
sediment at the bottom of the water. She told herself that 
perhaps the one thing in common between The Nest and La 
Solitude was that they were both built on chalk. 

She wondered where the bathroom could be. Putting on 
her dressing-gown, she opened her bedroom door. The pass- 
age was full of sunlight — a curious contrast to her room. 

The only open door besides her own was that just opposite. 
She peeped into it. It was a little empty slip of a room. It 
had seemed so big last night in the darkness. 

She ran down to the kitchen. Cristina was sitting at a 
little table, drinking a cup of coffee. 

As the door opened, the old woman jumped up with a 
curious look of apprehension and unease on her face. Then 
she smiled a rather wan smile. “Ah, Mademoiselle!” she 
exclaimed. “You startled me. Would you like a cup of 
coffee? If so, I will bring it up to you in a few minutes.” 

“I only want to know where the bathroom is,” said Lily. 

Cristina looked at her uncomfortably. “Does Mademoi- 
selle really want a bath?” she asked. “Mademoiselle looks 
so clean!” 

And then, for the first time since she had been at La 
Solitude, Lily laughed a hearty, ringing, girlish laugh, and 
Cristina put her fingers to her lips. “Take care,” she mur- 
mured, “or you will wake them/* 

She opened the door of what Lily had supposed the day 
before to be that of the scullery. It led straight out on to 


50 


The Lonely House 


the small walled courtyard into which the window of her 
beedroom looked down. She followed Cristina across the 
courtyard to what looked like a sort of outhouse. The old 
woman took up her bunch of keys and unlocked the large 
double door. Then she motioned the girl to go in. 

Lily looked about her with considerable curiosity. Surely 
Cristina could not expect her to have her bath heref And 
yet — yet there was a long, narrow zinc bath in a corner of 
the whitewashed building. 

Close to where they were now standing — not far, that is, 
from the door — was a peculiar-looking trolley, of which the 
four tyred bicycle wheels were so large that they came above 
the top of the quaint-looking vehicle. 

Cristina gave a slight push to this odd-looking object, 
and it rolled back noiselessly. 

“What a very droll-looking thing !” exclaimed Lily. 

“It is droll but useful,” said Cristina slowly. “It can 
be used for transporting anything. The Count uses it in 
the garden sometimes — it is very easy to move about.” 

The old woman walked across to the corner of the room 
where stood the narrow zinc bath, and then Lily saw that 
above one end of it was a cold-water tap. 

“This is the only fixed bath in the Villa,” said Cristina 
apologetically. “It was installed on the occasion of Count 
Beppo’s stay here two years ago. He was very angry that 
there was no bathroom on the English system. So the 
Countess had this put in to pacify him! But he never 
used it. He moved instead to an hotel.” 

Seeing Lily’s look of surprise and dismay, she added 
quietly, “Perhaps Mademoiselle will not take a bath this 
morning?” 

“Oh, yes, I must have a bath!” exclaimed Lily. “But 
to-morrow I’ll ask you to let me make a good lot of boiling 
water in the kitchen.” 

“It would be possible to make water hot here,” said Cris- 
tina hesitatingly. 

And Lily saw that there was a little stove not far from 


The Lonely House 


51 


the bath. She went up to the stove to look at it more 
closely, and then she put out her hand and touched it. 
“Why, it’s hot!” she said in a startled voice. “There 
must have been a fire here this morning!” 

Cristina grew faintly red. “No,” she said, “not this 
morning — last night. But please do not mention it to Madame 
la Comtesse, Mademoiselle. I had a good deal of rubbish, 

and it is impossible to burn much in that tiny kitchen ” 

she was now speaking in a quick, agitated voice. 

“Yes, I can well believe that,” said Lily. The stove, 
unluckily for her, was only warm, the fire had gone quite 
out. “I will make a fire now,” said Cristina, “and bring 
out a pot of water.” 

“No, don’t trouble to do that. I’ll manage all right this 
morning.” 

“Then I will bring Mademoiselle a towel.” And bring 
one she did, but it had a big hole in it. 

And then, after she had performed her toilet under some- 
what difficult circumstances, Lily went into the kitchen and 
enjoyed a big bowl of cafe-au-lait. 

“I suppose there is an English church in Monte Carlo?” 
she asked hesitatingly. 

And Cristina said : “I hope Mademoiselle will not go out 
alone this morning — it would make Madame la Comtesse 
angry if she did so.” 

“Very well. I’ll sit on the terrace in the sun and be lazy,” 
said Lily. 

Cristina came and unlocked the front door, and Lily 
walked round on to the terrace. The drawing-room doors 
were closely shut and the blinds were down. Surely she 
must have dreamt what had seemed to happen last night? 
But, alas ! she had only been out there a very few moments 
when she heard loud exclamations of concern and surprise. 
It was the Countess talking rapidly and excitedly, by turns 
in French, English, and Italian. Mingling with her agitated 
accents were the more gutteral tones of Uncle Angelo. 

Lily sprang up from the basket chair on which she had 


52 The Lonely House 

been sitting and, turning round, through the now open long 
French window she saw the Count, the Countess, and Cris- 
tina all standing together in the drawing-room round the 
ebony and ivory cabinet. 

As soon as she saw Lily the Countess called out: “A 
terrible thing has happened, my poor child ! This room was 
entered in the night — the lock of the cabinet was forced — 
everything in it taken ! Oh, why did Angelo put your fifty 
pounds there, instead of taking it up to his room, where it 
would have been so safe ?” 

The Countess was actually wringing her hands. She 
seemed almost beside herself with distress. As for Cristina, 
the tears were rolling down her cheeks ; she looked the pic- 
ture of utter woe. The Count appeared the least disturbed of 
the three — but he was rubbing his hands nervously, and 
muttering to himself. 

Yes, it was only too true! One of the doors of the beau- 
tiful inlaid cabinet had been wrenched off its hinges ; it lay on 
the floor. As for the drawer into which she had seen Uncle 
Angelo place her little bundle of five-pound notes, the thief, 
in his haste, had stuck it in again anyhow, wrong side up. 
Yes, another drawer lay on the floor with papers scattered 
round it. 

“They took some of the family documents — not all ; so far 
that is good,” said Uncle Angelo at last. 

“Would they had taken them all, precious as they are, and 
left our poor little Lily’s money intact !” 

“Of course, it’s a misfortune,” said Lily ruefully. “But 
never mind. Aunt Cosy. It can’t be helped. I didn’t even 
keep the numbers of the notes, so I’m afraid there’s no hope 
of our ever being able to recover them. The police court 
at Epsom is always shut on Sundays, and I suppose it’s the 
same here?” 

No one answered this remark. 

“I cannot understand when it happened!” exclaimed the 
Countess. She turned sternly to Cristina. “Did you over- 
sleep yourself?” she asked accusingly. 


The Eonely House 53 

know when it happened,” said Lily. And then she 
told the Countess of her experience of the night before. 

“Thank God you did nothing !” said the Count in French, 
and he really did look agitated at last. “The brigands might 
have shot you, had you given the alarm !” 

As for Cristina, she sat down and, with a dreadful groan, 
threw her apron over her head and began rocking herself 
backwards and forwards. 

“Be quiet, Cristina!” cried the Countess sharply. But 
the Count went up to his foster-sister, and patted her kindly 
on the headr 

“You must come to me when you want a little money, 
dear child,” said the Countess, turning to Lily. “Perhaps 
generous Tom Fairfield will send you another fifty pounds 
when he hears of your loss?” 

“He won’t hear of my loss for some time,” said Lily, 
“for he is leaving England to-day for the West Indies. But 
never mind. Aunt Cosy. I’ve got a letter of credit on the 
bank here.” 

The face of the Countess cleared, and even Uncle Angelo 
looked round at her, quite an eager look on his fat face. 

“I’m very glad to hear that,” said the Countess heartily. 
“Tom is a very generous man. There is nothing low or 
mean about him.” 

“He is goodness itself 1” said Lily. And then she added 
a little shyly: “But the money is really mine. Aunt Cosy. 
Since my twenty-first birthday, which was the tenth of last 
July, I’ve had my own banking account. As a matter of 
fact, Uncle Tom wanted to give me a present, but he didn’t 
quite know what to get, so he gave me the fifty pounds.” 

“Angelo ! See whether among your tools you cannot find 
something that will at any rate temporarily restore our poor 
cabinet,” said Aunt Cosy briskly. 

“As for you and I, dear child, we will go out for a little 
turn in the garden.” 

The little turn consisted in Lily and the Countess walking 
up and down the lawn for half an hour. 


54' The Lonely House 

For the first time Aunt Cosy asked Lily all kinds of 
questions about poor Aunt Emmeline’s illness and death — 
also as to whether she. Aunt Emmeline, had been a woman 
of means — ^whether she had left dear Lily a legacy — whether 
The Nest belonged to Uncle Tom, as also the furniture — and 
finally, whether Uncle Tom was likely to marry again? 
This last question shocked Lily, but it was evidently a yery 
natural one from the speaker’s point of view. 

And then, all at once, the Countess exclaimed: “And 
how about Miss Rosa Fairfield? Is she still living?” 

“Oh yes!” Lily laughed. “Cousin Rosa is very much 
alive, though she’s over eighty. She leads that dull, quiet 
life so many very old people like to live. She much dis- 
approved of my coming abroad; she wanted me to go and 
spend the winter with her!* 

“I wonder you did not do it,” said the Countess thought- 
fully. “Miss Rosa must be very rich.” 

“Yes,” said Lily. Cousin Rosa is certainly very rich. But I 
should have become melancholy mad — ^living that sort of life I” 

There was a pause. “And who will get her money?” 
asked the Countess. 

Lily hesitated a moment — ^then, “I believe — in fact I 
know, for she told Uncle Tom so three or four years ago — ' 
that I am to have most of it, Aunt Cosy.” 

“You, Lily Fairfield?** 

There was an extraordinary accent of surprise, excite- 
ment, and gratification in Aunt Cosy’s vibrant voice. 

She stopped in her vigorous walk and turned and faced 
the girl. “Oh, you English ?” she exclaimed. “How unemo- 
tional and cold you are I You do not show the slightest joy 
or excitement when telling this wonderful news. Why, Miss 
Rosa Fairfield must have — ^how much ?” As Lily said noth- 
ing, the Countess went on : A hundred thousand pounds — 
that is what poor Emmeline told me !” 

“Yes, I believe she has quite that.” 

“And you do not feel excited?” The Countess Polda 
gazed searchingly at the now flushed girl. 


The Lonely House ^ 

‘‘I suppose I should have felt excited if I’d suddenly learnt 
the fact,” said Lily slowly ; “But I’ve always known it — in a 
sort of way. I remember when I was quite a little girl hear- 
ing Aunt Rosa say to Uncle Tom that she thought she ought 
to be consulted about what school I was to be sent to, as I 
was to be her heiress. But I think Uncle Tom didn’t feel 
quite sure about it till two or three years ago. She sent for 
him on purpose to read him her will.” 

“And what is your fortune apart from that, dear child?” 
asked the Countess abruptly. 

It was rather an indiscreet thing to ask, but Lily had a 
straightforward nature, and, after all, she saw no reason for 
trying to parry the question. She had always heard that 
foreigners were very inquisitive. 

“My father left me eight thousand pounds,” she said 
quietly. “But Uncle Tom would never take any of the inter- 
est of it for my education. He paid for everything, just as 
if I had been his daughter. So I have got a little over ten 
thousand pounds now — ^you see, my parents when I was 
such a little child, and the ^onev was very cleverly in- 
vested.” 

“Ah, yes, poor little thing!” exclaimed the Countess 
affectionately. “Well, even that is a pretty fortune for a 
young girl!” 

She waited a moment as if making a calculation. “That 
would bring in — yes, if well invested — ^not far from fifteen 
thousand francs a year, if I am right Then you have the 
enjoyment of that now, dear child?” 

“Yes, said Lily, “I suppose I have.” 

“No wonder you took the disappearance of the fifty 
pounds in so philosophical a manner I” the Countess laughed 
rather harshly. 

They walked on a few steps. And then Aunt Cosy said 
suddenly : “You should not tell people of this money, Lily. 
I hope you do not talk freely to strangers ?” 

And then the girl did feel a little offended. “I’ve never 
spoken of my money matters to any living soul till to-day,” 


56 The Lonely House 

she said with some vehemence. ‘'And I shouldn’t have 
said anything to you, Aunt Cosy, if you hadn’t asked 
me !” 

“Ah, but it was right for me to know. I am your guard- 
ian for the moment. You have been entrusted to me. In 
Monte Carlo there are many — now what are they called in 
England? We have an expression of the kind in Italy, and 
there is yet another in France, but it is not so good as the 
English expression ” 

“What expression is that?” asked Lily. 

Fortune-hunters”- said Aunt Cosy grimly. 

“Fortune-hunters are not likely to come across my path,” 
the girl laughed gaily. 

“No, not while you are at La Solitude.” 

The Countess smiled, showing her large, good teeth, which 
somehow looked false — so even, so strong, so well matched 
in colour were they. But they were all her own, 

As at last they turned to go into the house, the Countess 
said suddenly: “Another Sunday, my dear Lily, I should 
like you to go to the English service. It is the proper thing 
to do.” 

Lily felt rather taken aback. “I thought of going this 
morning,” she said frankly, “but Cristina seemed to think 
you would be annoyed if I went off alone to try and find the 
place by myself.” 

“I will see in the guide-book if there is an afternoon 
service,” said the Countess hesitatingly. “Your Uncle 
Angelo might escort you as far as the door of the hotel 
where the English clergyman now officiates. I should not 
like you to walk about Monte Carlo alone.” 

There was a pause. “I think M. Popeau and Captain 
Stuart are coming to-day,” said Lily at last. She could not 
keep herself from blushing a little. 

“Captain Stuart?” echoed the Countess sharply. “And 
who, pray, is Captain Stuart?” 

By this time Lily had become rather tired of Aunt Cosy’s 
constant questions. “He is a friend of mine,” she said 


The Lonely House 57 

quietly, “Perhaps he won’t come, but M. Popeau said he 
meant to do so — don’t you remember. Aunt Cosy?” 

“Yes, I remember now. Well, he seems a very good 
sort of man ” She spoke with a touch of condescen- 

sion in her voice. “And he must be rich, or he would not 
be staying at the Hotel de Paris.” 

Lily could not help smiling a little satirically to herself. 
Aunt Cosy’s love of money jarred upon her. It reminded 
her of the story of the man who, when his wife asked him 
to call on some people, giving as a reason that they were 
very rich, answered: “I would, my dear, if it were catch- 
ing T’ 

Aunt Cosy, perhaps, thought that wealth was catching. 


CHAPTER yi 



ILY’S first real luncheon at La Solitude consisted 


I j of the remains of last night’s excellent, almost luxuri- 
ous supper. But a rough-looking, unbleached tablecloth had 
taken the place of the beautiful lace one, and the fine cut- 
glass decanters had disappeared from the sideboard. 

They all three drank out of coarse, thick glass tumblers, 
and they ate off heavy yellow plates. But the food was 
of the best, and they all make a good and hearty meal — 
once, indeed, Aunt Cosy, looking affectionately at the girl, 
exclaimed: “Yes, do not stint yourself, my little Lily, for 
we have to live as a rule exceedingly simply. It is a strange 
fact” — a hard tone came into her voice — “that Cristina has 
never learnt to cook. Even I can cook better than Cristina !” 

She looked at her husband as she spoke, and he, glancing 
up, observed in French : “She does well enough. We have 
to buy cooked food, as fuel is so dear.” 

“Yes,” said the Countess crossly, “but fuel was not always 
dear. And Cristina always cooked badly.” She turned to 
Lily: “I had thought of asking you if you knew a little 
simple cooking — ^the delicious milk puddings that I used to 
have have at The Nest long years ago even now make my 
mouth water, as you so funnily say in England. They are 
nutritious, and at the same time cheap. But they do not 
teach English girls to do such useful things.” 

“Indeed they do !” answered Lily, smiling. “Fll cook you 
a rice pudding to-night, if you like. Aunt Cosy, though I 
don’t know if I shall be able to brown the top properly as 
you haven’t got an oven!” 

“No, no, I do not want you to roughen those pretty hands 
before Beppo arrives,” observed the Countess. Then, all 
at once, she broke into rapid French; “I am explaining to 


S8 


The Lonely House 59 

our little friend that I want her to look her best when Beppo 
arrives.” 

“Beppo?” queried the Count. “But Beppo is not coming, 
that I know of, before the end of January?” 

“Oh yes, he is ! He is coming very soon. I heard from 
him to-day.” 

Lily felt surprised, for Cristina had told her 4:hat morning 
that there were no postal deliveries on Sunday at La 
Solitude. 

They all three got up and went back into the drawing- 
room, and at once the Count walked over to the card-table 
and, sitting down, started on his Patience again. 

“And now what will you do?” said the Countess hesitat- 
ingly, turning to Lily. 

“I will go into the kitchen, Aunt Cosy, and help Cristina 
to wash up,” said the girl. 

“But take care of those pretty hands !” The warning was 
uttered very seriously. 

Poor Lily ! She could not help rather regretting her offer. 
At home there had been gallons of hot water, nice clean 
teacloths — everything, in a word, required for the tiresome 
process known as washing-up. But Cristina simply piled 
everything into a basin full of tepid water, then she rubbed 
each plate with a dirty-looking little mop, and finally handed 
each plate and dish to Lily to dry with what looked like a 
rather worn old towel! 

Suddenly Lily realised that the towel she was using to 
wipe the plates was the very towel, with a hole in it, with 
which she had dried herself with such very mixed feelings 
in the outhouse this morning! It almost made the gently 
nurtured English girl feel sick; and yet what could she say 
or do? Cristina evidently saw nothing wrong in it. And 
it was a fact — to Lily rather a shocking fact — ^that the 
plates looked perfectly clean after having been submitted to 
this disgusting process. 

All at once Cristina crept up close to her — it was such 
a quick, stealthy movement that it startled Lily. 


6o 


The Lonely House 


^ “Listen,” said the old woman. “Listen, Mademoiselle! 
You must insist on having enough to eat! You are paying 
one hundred nad twenty-five francs a week. I know it; 
for the Countess had to tell me. So do not let her starve 
)ipu !” 

“Oh, Fm sure she wouldn’t do that !” said Lily. 

She smiled, but deep in her heart she was grateful to old 
Cristina. “What am I to say?” she whispered back. 

“You are to say that you must have two eggs and two 
cutlets every day — ^also two large glassfuls of milk,” said 
Cristina quickly. 

“But surely there will be plenty of food when Count 
Beppo arrives?” said Lily. 

Cristina shook her head. “The young Count is not com- 
ing till after New Year,” she said. 

“Oh yes, he is! The Countess told us at luncheon that 
she had heard from him to-day, and that he was coming 
very much sooner — perhaps in a week or ten days.” 

Cristina looked extremely surprised. Then she said sud- 
denly: “Even so, speak to-day. Mademoiselle. Why be 
short of food for ten days?” 

A dozen questions sprang to the girl’s lips. But she did 
not wish to discuss her host and hostess with even the most 
trusted and best-liked servant. Even so, she made up her 
mind to take Cristina’s advice, and to tell Aunt Cosy courte- 
ously but firmly that she had been used at home to good 
plain food, and, further, that the doctor had said she re- 
quired feeding up. 


Lily had only half-written her first letter to Uncle Tom 
when she heard the front-door bell echo through the house. 
She had not heard that bell ring since M. Popeau had pulled 
the rusty iron bell-pull on her first arrival at La Solitude, for 
their last night’s visitor had come up through the orange 
grove and across the lawn. The front door seemed to be 
scarcely ever used. 


The Lonely House 6i 

She got up and opening her door, waited for quite a little 
while. No doubt it was M. Popeau and Captain Stuart? 
She was astonished at her own keen pleasure, and, yes, 
relief, at the idea of seeing her two kind friends again. And 
then, when there came another peal, she made up her mind 
to run downstairs. She could not help feeling that Aunt 
Cosy was not at all anxious to continue her slight acquaint- 
ance with M. Popeau. It would be dreadful, dreadful, if 
Cristina had been told to say ^'Not at home.’^ 

At the bottom of the staircase a door was open, giving 
access to a room Lily had not yet seen. It was evidently 
the Countess’s own sitting-room. But there was a big writ- 
ing-table near the window, and it looked more like a man’s 
study than a lady’s boudoir. 

The Countess was standing not far from the door, with 
a very singular expression on her face. She appeared 
startled, even frightened, as also did Cristina, who was 
standing close to her. They both looked up when they heard 
the girl’s light footsteps on the uncarpeted stairs. '‘Shall 
Mademoiselle answer the door ?” Lily heard Cristina whisper. 

‘T think it must be M. Popeau and Captain Stuart,” said 
Lily a little nervously. 

“Of course ! How foolish of me not to have thought of 
them !” 

The Countess’s face cleared, her look of anxiety was suc- 
ceeded by one of relief. “Run, Cristina! Run and open 
the door to the two English gentlemen. What will they 
think of us keeping them waiting like this?” Then she 
turned to the girl : “I have no tea in the house, but you have 
some tea, I know, Lily. Will you give a little to Cristina ?” 

“It’s so early — only three o’clock. I don’t think they’ll 
want tea now,” said the girl smiling. She was feeling ex- 
traordinarily pleased at the thought of seeing her two travel- 
ling companions again. 

But alas the visit was a disappointment to Lily. 

They all five sat in a formal circle round the empty grate 
of the stuffy salon for some time, and Lily had no oppor- 


62 The Lonely House 

tunity of exchanging a word alone with the visitors. M. 
Popeau talked a great deal, in fact at one moment he even 
out-talked the Countess. He answered her many questions 
as to life in war-time Paris with the utmost frankness and 
good humour; and he carelessly brought into his conversa- 
tion the names of many well-known Parisians, all, it ap- 
peared, good friends of his. As he had intended should 
happen, his hostess’s respect for him visibly grew. 

But when the genial Frenchman threw out a suggestion 
that Miss Fairfield should come back with him and with 
Captain Stuart to spend an hour at the Casino, the Countess 
shook her head. 

“No, no,” she exclaimed. “Nice English people do not 
gamble on Sunday, M. Popeau! I should have thought 
that even you would have known that, speaking such beauti- 
ful English as you do. I seldom go down the hill. But 
soon my son will be here, and he will escort Miss Fairfield 
where I myself may not go. My son is an Italian, so he 
can do as he likes when he comes here; he can even go to 
the Club and play — ^to my regret. But his father cannot 
do so, being a native of the Principality!” 

At last the Countess turned her attention to Captain 
Stuart, and it is not too much to say that she riddled her 
3^ounger visitor with questions. How long had he been a 
soldier? In which of the battles of the war had he fought? 
Where exactly had he been wounded? How much money 
did a British captain earn? Was he an only child, or had 
he brothers and sisters? Were his parents still alive, and 
in what part of Scotland did they live? 

All these somewhat indiscreet questions Captain Stuart 
answered with composure. But finally, when the Countess, 
looking at him searchingly, suddenly asked how long he had 
known Miss Fairfield, Lily was astonished to hear him 
answer thoughtfully: “It seems a lifetime to me since I 
first met Miss Fairfield.” But after he had made this sur- 
prising answer, he looked across at Lily, and she saw a 
funny little twinkle in his eye. 


The Lonely House 63 

A break occurred when Cristina opened the door noise- 
lessly and announced that gouter was quite ready. 

The whole party went off to the dining-room, where, 
Lily saw with amazement, the splendours of the night be- 
fore had been restored. Once more the lace tablecloth was 
spread out on the round table, once more the fruit was piled 
on the beautiful high crystal dishes, and now there were five 
old painted china teacups set out in a semi-circle. The only 
incongruous touch was that the tea had been made in a 
fine old silver coffee-pot. 

“Will you pour out the tea, dear child?” said the Countess 
suavely. “That is a task we always delegate to young 
ladies,” she said, turning to M. Popeau. “In England the 
old wait upon the young. But that is not right.” 

Lily poured out some of the straw-coloured liquid into 
each of the cups. Both M. Popeau and Uncle Angelo took 
three lumps of sugar; Captain Stuart took none. As for 
the Countess, she declared she would not have any tea at 
all. 

And then, at last, having spent altogether a little over an 
hour at La Solitude, the two visitors prepared to depart. 
Lily and the Count walked down with them through the 
garden, the Countess having decided that she would stay in 
the house. And then, for the first time, Lily and Captain 
Stuart were able to exchange a few words. 

“Can’t you give your aunt the slip and come off with us 
now, just as you are?” he asked in a low voice. 

Lily shook her head. “Aunt Cosy would never forgive 
me! She’d be awfully shocked if I were to do that after 
what she said.” 

“I suppose she would,” said the young man reluctantly. 
“Still, she can’t keep you cooped up here all the time. Do 
make her understand that in England girls go about by 
themselves. Miss Fairfield.” 

“I’ll try and make her understand it,” said Lily, smiling, 
“but it won’t be easy. She’s tremendously determined.” 

“I can see that. I hope they’re nice to you?” he added a 


64 The Lonely House 

little anxiously. And he looked at her with one of the quick, 
shrewd looks to which she had become accustomed during 
their long journey together. 

But this time there was something added — a something 
which made Lily’s heart beat. She asked herself incon- 
sequently what exactly he had meant when he said that he 
felt as if he had known her a lifetime? But all she said 
was: 

“They are very kind to me in their own way, and I think 
I’m going to be quite happy here.” 

Twice, while she and the young man had been talking 
apart together, she had seen Uncle Angelo look towards them 
uncomfortably, hesitatingly, almost as if he thought he ought 
to cut across their conversation. 

“Can’t you come down for a game of tennis early to- 
morrow morning? Do! I could come and fetch you any 
time you fix.” 

Perhaps M. Popeau heard the whispered invitation, for 
he said to Uncle Angelo: “By the way, it has suddenly 
occurred to me, could not you and Mademoiselle lunch with 
me to-morrow?” 

The Count hesitated. It was clear that he was very 
much tempted to accept. “I’m not certain about my wife’s 
plans,” he said at last, “so I fear I must refuse your kind 
invitation this time.” 

“Captain Stuart has to go to Milan for a few days, and 
I am giving myself the pleasure of accompanying him. But 
we shall certainly be back by next Sunday,” said M. Popeau 
amiably. 

Lily felt curiously taken aback — ^indeed, sharply disap- 
pointed. The thought that her late fellow-travellers were 
going to be away for something like a week filled her with 
dismay. 

She had known vaguely about this proposed trip of Captain 
Stuart’s, for during their journey he had asked M. Popeau 
about the trains from Monte Carlo to Milan, explaining 
that he had a relation living there who had asked him to 


The Lonely House 65 

come over and see him. But at that time Captain Stuart 
had been a stranger to her — now she felt as if he was an 
old friend! 

Perhaps something of what she was feeling showed in her 
face, for the Scotsman said suddenly: ‘‘I don't really want 
to go to Milan this week, Popeau. Why shouldn't I wire and 
say I will come later on?" 

But M. Popeau shook his head decidedly. 

“You forget, my friend, that all arrangements have been 
made. I do not think that we can make any change now." 

“Well, well," said the Count easily. “I shall look for- 
ward to seeing you again, messieurs, in about ten days' 
time. Meanwhile, my young niece can have a real rest. 
She has been ill, and must not over-exert herself. There 
will be plenty of time to show her the sights of Monte Carlo 
after you return." 

They were standing round the little gate which formed 
the boundary of the property of La Solitude, and after 
shaking hands, English fashion, with Captain Stuart and M. 
Popeau, the Count and Lily slowly made their way up to 
the house again. 

The Countess was waiting for them, rather impatiently, 
in the salon. And then all at once Lily summoned up cour- 
age to say very quietly but very firmly: “Fm afraid, Aunt 
Cosy, you'll have to become accustomed to my going about 
by myself. You see, Fm not a French girl but an English 
girl. I simply couldn't stay in a house where I didn't feel 
free to come and go.” 

“But of course you're free !” exclaimed the Countess. “Ab- 
solutely free, dear child. I regret not having allowed you 
to go out this afternoon with M. Popeau and your old 
friend. Captain Stuart, but I did not think you would like 
to do what English people do at Monte Carlo on Sundays.” 

“I did not want to go to the Casino," said Lily, firmly. 
“But I do want to join the tennis club, and to have a good 
game now and again. I suppose you know some lady who 
would put me up. Aunt Cosy?” 


66 The Lonely House 

The Countess hadn’t the slightest idea of what Lily meant 
by being ‘^put up,” but she nodded amiably. 

'^Oh, yes,” she said, ‘T will certainly find some lady. 
Meanwhile your Uncle Angelo will take you down to Monte 
Carlo to-morrow morning, just to show you the way. He 
has purchases to make, and he will be able to see about the 
tennis. It is, so I understand, quite a young girl’s game.” 

*^That Parisian asked me to lunch to-morrow; he desired 
Lily to come too,” interposed the Count. 

“Oh, I do not think you can do that, my friend,” said 
the Countess decidedly. “I wish you to help with several 
important matters to-morrow. You can go some other 
day.” 

“He and the Englishman are going away to Italy for a 
few days.” 

“Are they indeed?” said the Countess, indifferently. She 
hesitated — “I would like to ask you what is perhaps a very 
indiscreet question, my sweet child,” and she fixed her 
bright, differently-coloured eyes full on Lily. 

“Yes, Aunt Cosy?” The girl looked up. 

“I suppose you are not what is called in England ‘en- 
gaged’?” asked Aunt Cosy, very deliberately. 

The colour flamed up in Lily’s cheeks. “No, I am not 
engaged. Aunt Cosy.” ^ 

There was a curious pause, and then the Countess went 
on: “When you are writing to your uncle, dear girl, I hope 
you will tell him that we are doing our best to make you 
happy” — ^there was a pleading, almost an anxious, tone in 
her voice. 

“Of course I will!” said Lily affectionately. 

She felt, as she expressed it to herself, “rather a pig” 
for having stood up to the Countess. She was astonished 
too, at her easy victory. Aunt Emmeline had been so very 
different! She would never give in if she thought a thing 
wrong. Lily could not help reflecting that the five pounds 
a week must mean a great deal to Count and Countess Polda. 
She could see that they were both painfully anxious that 


The Lonely House 


67 


she should stay on at La Solitude, and be happy and com- 
fortable there. 

A week can pass like a flash, or it can seem an eternity. 
The first week of Lily Fairfield’s stay at La Solitude was, 
truth to tell, more like a month, and a very long month, 
than a week. She did her best to feel happy and comfort- 
able, though it was a strange kind of life for a girl used 
to all the cheerful comings and goings of an English country 
town. After she had helped Cristina with the housework 
each morning there was absolutely nothing left to do during 
the rest of the day. 

Twice during that long week Lily accompanied the Count 
into Monte Carlo, or rather into that part of the Principality 
which lies in a hollow between Monaco and Monte Carlo, 
and which is called the Condamine. While there, they had 
spent the whole of their time shopping in the funny little 
inative shops, the Count bargaining as if the question of a 
few sous was of the utmost moment to him. 

The second time they went down the hill, she asked Uncle 
Angelo to show her where the English service was held each 
Sunday, and it was then that he offered to show her the 
English bank. Indeed, the only time she was allowed to go 
to Monte Carlo by herself was when she suggested that she 
should pay the Countess four weeks in advance. 

It had seemed strange at first to be walking all alone in 
a foreign town, but she had managed quite well, and the 
famous bankers had been very courteous to their pretty new 
client. The gentleman to whom she had given her letter of 
credit had shaken his head when she had told him about 
the unfortunate theft of fifty pounds, but he had not been 
as surprised as she had been that the police had not been 
told about it. 

“It would have been sheer waste of time, my dear young 
lady,” he said smiling, “and would have only exposed your 
relations to a great deal of worry. A visit from the police 


68 The Lonely House 

always entails a great deal of fuss and unpleasantness on 
the Continent.” 

During the same little expedition Lily bought, at a very 
big price, six wicker chairs and a little outdoor table as a 
present to Aunt Cosy ; and to her relief the Countess seemed 
delighted with the gift. As the days went on it became 
increasingly clear to Lily Fairfield that either the Count and 
Countess Polda were very poor, or very mean. They were 
always trying to save a sou here and a sou there ; they were 
extraordinarily fond, too, of talking about money. 

One rather surprising, and, yes, exciting, thing happened 
to Lily during that long, dull first week at La Solitude. 

Captain Stuart wrote her three longish letters. They were 
simple, informal, pleasant letters, telling her something of 
how Milan had struck him, and how grateful he was to 
good-natured M. Popeau. But though they were in a sense 
quite ordinary epistles, they gave the girl pleasure, and made 
her feel less lonely. 

But when the second letter came Lily could not help hav- 
ing an uncomfortable suspicion that it had been steamed 
open and then closed down again. She hated herself for 
suspecting such a thing, but she had already come to the 
conclusion that Aunt Cosy was sly and, when it suited her, 
very unscrupulous. 

Now, it is an unfortunate fact that slyness always breeds 
slyness. Lily had a frank, open, straightforward nature; 
but, then, she had always been treated by Uncle Tom and 
Aunt Emmeline in a frank, open, straightforward way. 
Neither of them would have dreamt of opening one of her 
letters! Had they thought she was carrying on an unsuit- 
able correspondence they would have taxed her with it at 
once, and Aunt Emmeline might have gone so far as to 
forbid her to receive letters from a correspondent of whom* 
she did not approve. But it would all have been frank and 
above board. 

Henceforth Lily took good care to be up when the post- 
man came to the door, and so, when Captain Stuart’s third 


The Lonely House 69 

letter arrived on the Saturday morning, it was handed to 
her direct. In this last letter the Scotsman told her that he 
hoped to see her at the English Church service on Sunday 
morning. 

That was all. And yet it cast a glow of pleasure over the 
whole of that long, dull Saturday. It was hot and airless, 
even up at La Solitude, and in the night there was a terrific 
storm of thunder, wind, and rain. 


CHAPTER VII 


L ily got up the next morning feeling very happy and 
cheerful. Not only were kindly M. Popeau and her 
new friend Captain Stuart now back in Monte Carlo, 
but Beppo Polda’s arrival was definitely fixed for the follow- 
ing Tuesday. His mother talked of him incessantly, and 
was evidently exceedingly anxious to make his visit a suc- 
cess. 

Lily could not help feeling touched by Aunt Cosy’s won- 
derful love of, and pride in, her son, and, as she got ready 
to start for church, the girl told herself that it would be 
amusing to see Beppo after having heard so much about him. 
And then, all at once, she asked herself, blushing a little, 
how Beppo Polda would get on with Angus Stuart! They 
were certain to be very different I 

‘"When Beppo is here you will be very gay!” the Countess 
had exclaimed the night before. ‘T do not care for Monte 
Carlo. But you and Uncle Angelo will be there a great deal. 
Beppo knows all the smart set in London and in Paris as 
well as in Rome! I hope you have brought some pretty 
clothes with you, dear child. If not, perhaps it would be well 
to purchase one or two new dresses, eh?” 

“Yes, perhaps I ought to get a few things,” said Lily 
smiling. “I’ve hardly had anything new since the war. At 
first I felt it to be wrong; later on everything became so 
dear !” 

“You will not find anything very cheap here,” said 
Aunt Cosy, shaking her head. 

And now, on this Sunday morning, she was sorry that' 
she only had the plain black coat and skirt she had ar- 
rived in from London. Still, when she went into the 
kitchen, on her way out, Cristina looked up, and smiled at 

70 


The Lonely House 71 

her very kindly. “Mademoiselle looks as fresh as a rose,'" 
she exclaimed. 

“I’m going to church,” said Lily. “Is thefe anything 
I can do for you in the town?” 

And then Cristina said that she would be very grateful 
if Mademoiselle would do a little commission. Not in the 
town, but on the hill, at the cottage near the chapel where 
they sold her new-laid eggs. “Has Mademoiselle time to 
do this before going down to church ?” 

“Heaps of time,” said Lily gaily, and then she added : 
“Now that my friends are back in Monte Carlo I hope I 
shall be able to join the tennis club, so you’ll get rid of me 
sometimes, Cristina !” 

And then Cristina said something which touched the 
English girl. “I shall miss you very much, my little lady. 
You are a ray of sunshine in this lonely house.” And the 
old woman sighed, a long-drawn-out, mournful sigh. 

When Lily found herself on the rough path leading up- 
wards towards the top of the great hill she was amazed at 
the destruction the storm had wrought. Even the sturdy 
olive trees had suffered, and the more delicate flowering 
bushes were beaten to the earth. 

After doing her errand she walked on a few steps along 
the path across the mountain side. She felt tired of the 
road leading down past La Solitude, and so she made up 
her mind to go down by another way to the town. There 
was a rough, steep way cut into long, low steps — as is 
the fashion in those parts — which was bound to bring 
her not far from the hotel where the service was now held 
each Sunday morning. 

After a while she realised that this new way of going 
down the hill would take her much longer than the old, 
familiar way. She glanced at her wrist watch. Though 
she had allowed herself plenty of time, she must hurry 
now, or she would be late. 

She struck off to her left — intending to pick up the road 


72 


The Lonely House 


which led straight down to Monte Carlo — into a beautiful, 
if obviously neglected, grove of orange trees. As she did 
so she realised that she had not got nearly so far down 
the hill as she had supposed, for she was only just below 
the little clearing where the taxi had stopped on her first 
arrival at La Solitude. 

And then, while walking along a narrow path through 
a plantation of luxuriant bushes, Lily suddenly experi- 
enced what is sometimes described as one’s heart stop- 
ping still. 

Right in front of her, barring her way, there lay on the 
still wet earth an arm — stretching right across the path. 

She stopped and stared, fearfully, at the stark, still, 
outstretched arm and hand lying just before her. The 
sleeve clothing the arm was sodden; the cuff which 
slightly protruded beyond the sleeve was now a pale, 
dirty grey; the hand was clenched. 

All at once she saw the glint of gold just below the 
cuff, and she remembered, with a feeling of sick dread, 
the bangle which George Ponting had worn just a week 
and a night ago ! 

She did not turn and run away, as another kind of girl 
might have done. Instead she covered her face for a 
moment with her hands, and then forced herself to look 
again. 

At last she stooped down, and then she saw that the 
arm belonging to a body which was mercifully half-con 
cealed from her terror-stricken gaze by a large broken 
branch. 

The deathly still, huddled-up figure had evidently 
rolled over forward during the storm from under the 
shelter of a big spreading bush. 

She drew a little nearer, full of an awful feeling of repul- 
sion, as well as of fear. And then she noticed that a small 
automatic pistol was lying on the coarse grass near the body. 

Did that mean that the unhappy man had killed himself ? 
Nay, it was far more likely, so the girl told herself, that he 


The Lonely House 73 

had been set on by the same gang who had broken into La 
Solitude the very night he had been there. 

There was no sign of a struggle, but then the storm of the 
night before would have obliterated any traces of that sort. 
In the bright, clear sunlight the raindrops still glistened on 
the evergreen leaves ; it was not only a beautiful but a very 
peaceful scene. 

Again she forced herself to stoop down and look, and 
then tears welled up slowly into her eyes; it seemed so 
piteous that what was huddled up there should have once 
been a man — a man, too, who had seemed so full of life, even 
of a kind of bubbling vitality, only a few days ago. 

She stood up, faced with a disagreeable personal problem. 
Ought she to go back to La Solitude and tell the Count and 
Countess Polda of her horrible discovery? Or would she 
be justified in going on straight down to the town, and first 
informing the two men who seemed so much more truly her 
[friends than did Aunt Cosy and Uncle Angelo? 

M. Popeau was always so helpful in an emergency. Surely 
he would know what to do far better than either the Count 
or Countess? They would probably be very glad to be re- 
lieved of whatever might be the necessary steps in such a case 
as this. 

As she had been the first person to find the body, Lily 
naturally supposed that she would have to see the police, and 
she knew that it would be less unpleasant to do that with 
'M. Popeau than with her nervous, fussy host, or her queer- 
tempered hostess. 

She walked quickly upwards, to find herself, as she had 
expected to do, on the little clearing. From there she knew 
every step of the way down into Monte Carlo. So she 
hurried on, still feeling terribly shaken and upset, though 
much more at ease, now that she had made up her mind as 
to what she ought to do. 

As Lily approached the hotel where the English Church 
service was always held, she noticed that people were walk- 


74 The Lonely House 

ing up to the door, reading a notice that had been pinned 
up on it, and then turning away. The notice explained that 
as the chaplain was ill there would be no service that 
morning. 

A deep, low voice suddenly sounded in her ears, ‘‘Good 
morning. Miss Fairfield.’^ 

Such commonplace words! Yet as Captain Stuart held 
out his hand, for the second time to-day the tears welled 
up into Lily’s eyes. But this time it was because there had 
come over her a sensation of such infinite relief. Somehow 
she felt as if the man before her was a bit of home, and she 
realised how dreadfully lonely and forlorn she had been since 
they had last met. 

As for Angus Stuart, he was looking at Lily with concern. 
She looked ill — ^very ill! She was pale, and there was a 
look of terror on her face. What could have happened? 
A feeling of positive hatred for the Count and Countess 
Polda rose up in the young man’s mind. What could they 
have done to make the girl look as she was looking this 
morning ? 

“Is anything the matter?” he asked abruptly. 

Lily pulled herself together. “Forgive me!” she ex- 
claimed. “It’s stupid of me to be so upset. But something 
dreadful has happened to me this morning! I’ll tell you 
about it, and then you will be able to advise me as to whether 
I ought to go to the police — now, at once. I also thought 
of asking M. Popeau what I had better do.” 

“Tell me what happened,” he said quietly. “We will g6 
and find Popeau presently. He’s taking a little constitu- 
tional up and down outside the Hotel de Paris. 

And then Lily told him shortly and quietly of her awful 
discovery in the orange grove. 

Angus Stewart was greatly surprised as well as concerned 
at her story. Then he had done the Count and Countess 
Polda an injustice? They were in no way responsible for 
the way Lily Fairfield looked this morning. 

“D’you mean that you’ve no doubt that the poor fellow 


The Lonely House 75 

you found to-day was the man who was dining at La Soli- 
tude the night you arrived?’’ he asked. 

The fact struck him with fresh surprise. What queer 
people Count Polda must know ! He had very little doubt in 
his own mind that the unfortunate Ponting had committed 
suicide after a big loss at the Casino. 

‘T think I can say that I am quite sure,” she answered, 
in a troubled voice. ‘'But I confess I didn’t look at — at 
the face. In fact, I tried not to see it ! Oh, Captain Stuart, 
I feel as if I shall never, never get that hand — ^that cuff — 
that bangle — out of my mind! I seem to see the poor fel- 
low’s arm lying across the path, as if barring my way ” 

He saw that her eyes were fixed with a look of horror 
on the ground in front of her. 

“Look here!” he exclaimed authoritatively. “That’s quite 
wrong. Miss Fairfield — really wrong! Life is full of tragedy 
and unhappiness. I’ve seen some very terrible things in 
the last five years, and though I don’t exactly want to forget 
them, I never allow my mind to dwell on them. It’s morbid, 
as well as wrong ! No doubt the poor man had lost heavily 
in the Rooms, and thought he would put an end to his 
troubles. But it was very selfish of him to go and do it 
there — in the garden of the people who seem to have been 
so kind to him.” 

“If he really did do it, he didn’t do it exactly in their 
garden,” she said in a low voice ; “it was — oh, well, I should 
think quite thirty yards below the place where the grounds 
of La Solitude end. He chose the place so carefully that it 
might have been months before he would have been found, 
had it not been that I rather foolishly thought I should like 
to try and find a new way down into the town.” 

Somehow it was a comfort to Lily to find that Captain 
Stuart felt so sure Mr. Ponting had killed himself. 

There was a pause. And then: “I feel better iiow thaf 
I’ve told you,” said Lily in a low voice. 

“That’s right!” he exclaimed. “After all, we know that 
there are a certain number of suicides each year at Monte 


76 


The Lonely House 


Carlo, though Popeau declares that there are much fewer 
than people believe/* 

They found the Frenchman walking up and down in front 
of the Hotel de Paris, and Lily, troubled and upset though 
she was, told herself that she had never seen such a delight- 
ful scene ! The palace-like white Casino, the brilliant- 
coloured flowers, the palms, the blue-green sea, made a 
delightful background to the groups of cheerful, prosperous- 
looking people who were walking about the big open space 
between the hotel and the Casino. It seemed like a scene 
on another planet compared to the hillside and the quiet, 
lonely house where she had spent the last week. But she 
could not help reminding herself that ten days ago poor 
George Ponting had probably formed part of this gay, care- 
free crowd. 

“Welcome!” crifed M. Popeau, in his hearty voice. “It 
seems a long time. Miss Fairfield, since I saw you. I hope 
that you are very well,^and that all goes happily at La Soli- 
tude ?” t' 

“Miss Fairfield has just had a most painful experience,” 
said Captain Stuart gravely. And then, in a few dry words, 
he told their French friend what had happened. But, per- 
haps because Lily again turned very pale, he made his story 
quite short. 

Hearing the tale from another*s lips, brought back what 
had happened with dreadful vividness to poor Lily. Her 
lips quivered. 

“I suppose I ought to go straight to the police,” she said 
nervously, “and I thought, M. Popeau, that perhaps you 
would not mind going with me ?” 

“Of course I will go with you.** He spoke very feelingly 
and kindly. “Try not to think too much of this sad event, 
my dear young lady. There has always been that one black 
blot on this beautiful place.** 

He waved his hand towards the Casino. “Yonder is a 
monster which destroys the happiness of many while some- 
times capriciously making the happiness of one. And now I 


The Lonely House 77 

suggest an early dejeuner. The Count and Countess can- 
not expect you back for another hour and a half at least. 
An English Church service goes on for a long time. You 
will be more ready to face my old friend, the Commissioner 
of Police, after a good lunch [” 

Lily knew that a very small luncheon was to have been 
kept for her, and she could not help looking forward to a 
good meal. Yet when it was put before her she felt suddenly 
as if she could not eat. 

M. Popeau always sat at a delightful little table in one 
of the great windows of the famous restaurant, and all three 
were soon happily established there. But the kindly host saw 
with concern that poor Lily looked at the delicious hors- 
d'oeuvres with a kind of aversion. 

He put out his hand and laid it lightly over hers. ‘‘Come, 
come,” he said, and there was a touch of command in his 
voice, “this won’t do! I should have starved to death a 
very long time ago if I had allowed the sad things I have 
seen and heard to stop my appetite !” 

Lily could not help smiling at the funny way he said this, 
but, “What makes it so much worse,” she said in a low 
voice, “is having actually known the poor man.” 

“What d’you say?” said M. Popeau in a startled voice. 
“Known the poor man ? I didn’t know that !” 

“I forgot to tell you,” interposed Captain Stuart, “that 
as a matter of fact. Miss Fairfield is convinced that the 
body she saw is that of an Englishman called Ponting who 
had dinner at La Solitude the evening of the day she arrived 
there, a week ago yesterday.” 

Lily turned her head away; the tears were now rolling 
down her cheeks. 

“That certainly must have made the horrible discovery 
much worse for you,” said M. Popeau sympathetically. “Did 
this Mr. Ponting seem at all worried or depressed. Made- 
moiselle ?” 

“No, I can’t say that he did. We had a talk when he first 
arrived, for the Count and Countess left me alone with him 


78 The Lonely House 

for about ten minutes. Though he said he had lost a good 
bit of money, he didn’t seem to mind. I remember his say- 
ing: ‘T’ye done with Monte Carlo, and I’ve got off cheap, 
considering I” 

She felt it was too bad that she should spoil this pleasant 
lunch for her two kind friends. They all made a deter- 
mined effort to talk of other things, and as the time went 
on, Lily unconsciously began to feel better. 

^‘And how is my friend the Countess?” asked M. Popeau 
suddenly. '‘That woman interests me ; I could not tell you 
why, but she seems to me a remarkable person — one with a 
tremendous amount of will power. I would not care to have 
been married to her? Hercules Popeau would have been a 
poor little bit of wax between her strong fingers.” 

The other two smiled, but he had meant what he said. 

And then a feeling of loyalty to her hostess made Lily 
exclaim: 'T think the Count is quite happy, M. Popeau. 
They seem devoted to one another, and just now they are 
extra happy ” 

“Why that?” asked Captain Stuart drily. 

, “Because their son, who lives in Rome, is coming to pay 
them a visit. They simply worship him !” She added : “I’m 
quite looking forward to seeing him. According to the Count- 
ess, he’s a most wonderful young man ! He’s a great athlete, 

and yet ” she hesitated, “though only twenty-seven, he 

did not fight. Is that not odd ? His mother says he served 
Italy better by staying in Rome.” 

“Ah, an emhusque!'* exclaimed M. Popeau. 

“I hope not that!” said Lily. 

“I should expect any child of hers to be exceptionally 
good-looking,” went on the Frenchman reflectively. 

“Would you?” Lily was rather surprised. 

“Yes, for the Countess Polda must have been very hand- 
some in her day.” 

“That’s true?” exclaimed Lily. “When she came and 
stayed with us in England when I was a little girl, I remem- 
ber thinking her the most beautiful person I had ever seen ? 


The Lonely House ^79 

But somehow — I don’t know why — she looks very different 
now.” 

‘'It is a great art — ^that of knowing how to grow old 
gracefully,” said M. Popeau sententiously. “The Countess 
does not possess that art. Only a very few women do 
possess it, my dear young lady. As you grow older do not 
forget the words of Hercules Popeau — every age has its own 
beauty. That is not an original remark; I believe it was 
first made by our great Napoleon when speaking of his 
mother, a very noble woman.” 

And then Lily, her new trouble for the moment out of her 
mind, went on : “The Countess says that she would like her 
son to marry an Englishwoman.” 

“Does she, indeed? and he is arriving here to-morrow?” 

M. Popeau spoke with a touch of meaning in his voice, 
and the colour suddenly flamed up on Lily’s face; yet she 
felt sure that Aunt Cosy had had no particular person in 
her mind when she had made that remark. 

“What is the name of this prodigy?” 

“Beppo Polda.” 

“Count Beppo Polda?” repeated the Frenchman. “I must 
try and find out something about this young gentleman, for 
I propose to do myself the honour of calling again on the 
Countess one day soon.” 

By this time they were drinking their coffee, and while 
the two men each enjoyed a liqueur, M. Popeau made Lily 
drink a second cup of coffee. 

When she had finished he said: “Now, my dear young 
lady, we had better go and look up my friend Bouton. He 
will not like being disturbed on a Sunday, but I feel you 
will be more comfortable when you have seen him. I want 
you to forget this sad affair — ^to wipe it out of your mind 
completely.” 

He made a gesture in the air as if he was rubbing some- 
thing out. 

Lily felt as if she could never, never forget what had hap- 
pened that morning. But she did not say so. She was 


8o The Lonely House 

asking herself, with some perplexity, where she had heard 
the name Bouton, and then, all at once, she remembered! 
It was the name which had produced such an extraordinary 
change in the taxicab-driver on the day of her arrival at 
Monte Carlo. 


CHAPTER VIII 


A S they walked along the broad road which leads 
steeply down from Monte Carlo to the quaintly named 
Condamine, M. Popeau began talking almost as much to 
himself as to his young companion. 

“The man we’re going to see,” he said, “is an autocrat. 
Miss Fairfield — one of the last real autocrats left in Europe. 
He has absolute power in this little country — I mean in 
Monaco. From his ruling there is no appeal. I remember 
he once caused an Englishman to be what would now be 
called deported. A fearful fuss was made about it! The 
man — ^his name was Johnson — was a nasty, cantankerous 
fellow, and it seemed that he had some relation in your 
Foreign Office. The affair dragged on for months — fright- 
ful threats were uttered. The British Ambassador in Paris 
was brought in — in fact it is not too much to say that had 
Monaco been a real country, with a fleet and an army, war 
might have resulted. But friend Bouton stuck to his guns, 
as the British so cleverly and truly say, and poor Johnson 
never came back !” 

They were now turning into a very quiet, shadowed 
street composed of small but prosperous-looking houses. 

“Just one word, Miss Fairfield !” Lily’s companion, guide, 
and mentor, stopped walking. 

“Please do not volunteer any information unless you are 
asked a direct question,” he said gravely. “Even then it is 
not necessary for you to answer a question unless you wish 
to do so. I will tell the Commissioner of Police what hap- 
pened, and I hope — I am not sure, but I think I may say 
that that will be the end of the matter as far as you are 
concerned.” 

“I suppose I shall have to show the police where I found 
the body ?” asked Lily in a low voice. 

8i 


82 


The Lonely House 


*‘1 trust that will not be necessary.” 

A few moments later they were standing in a formal- 
looking sitting-room, on the ground floor of the house to 
which they had been admitted by a pleasant-looking tonne 
a tout faire. 

After they had waited some minutes the door opened and 
a tall, thin man, with a napkin tucked in his collar, entered 
with hand outstretched. 

“This is an unexpected pleasure, dear friend ! What can 
I do for you?” he exclaimed. “You have come just too late 
to share our Sunday lunch. My married daughter, her hus- 
band, and her two children have come over from Nice and 
we have been having something of a festival. Sit down — 
sit down !” 

As he spoke he was measuring Lily with what she felt to 
be a pair of very sharp eyes. 

“I am ashamed to have come on a Sunday,” began M. 
Popeau. 

“Not at all — not at all! I am delighted to see you,” said 
M. Bouton, “and there are certain things that will not wait. 
I hope Mademoiselle is not a new victim of the gang of 
thieves I mentioned to you yesterday? So far they have 
spared the Hotel de Paris. But I have a clue — ^and it will 
not be long before they are laid by the heels.” 

“I am here,” said M. Popeau quietly, “because a sad 
thing befell this lady. Miss Fairfield, to-day on her way to 
the English Church service. She is staying in a villa called 
La Solitude, some way above Monte Carlo, and, wandering 
a little way oif the path, she suddenly came across a dead 
body! Of course, it gave her a terrible shock.” 

To Lilyas astonishment, M. Bouton did not look surprised. 

“Very sad,” he murmured. “The matter will have my 
yery earnest attention. If Mademoiselle will give me a 
few particulars as to the locality where she made this pain- 
ful discovery I will see to the matter at once. Would you 
kindly come this way?” 

He opened the door, and passed on, in front of them, into 


The Lonely House 83 

a room built out at the back of the house. It was obviously 
his own study. 

‘'Here is the plan of our Principality,” he observed, and^ 
Lily, glancing up, saw that a huge map covered one entire 
side of the room. 

“Will you point our the exact spot where you made your 
sad discovery?” went on M. Bouton, handing her a long, 
light stick. 

Lily stared anxiously up at the map, but she had no oump 
of locality on her pretty head. 

M. Popeau took the thin stick from her hand. He laid 
the point lightly on the map, and pushed it up and up and 
up! 

“Here is La Solitude,” he said at last, “so now we shall be 
able to find the exact place.” 

“Ah, yes,” said M. Bouton. “Lo Solitude belongs to 
Count Antonio Polda. He and the Countess are nice, quiet 
people, almost the only people in Monaco with whom I have 
never had any trouble ! It is my impression that somewhere 
about the fourteenth century a Grimaldi married a Polda — 
so the Count is distantly related to our sovereign.” 

“Mademoiselle is a niece of the Countess Polda,” said M. 
Popeau quietly. “She is staying at La Solitude for the 
winter. 

M. Bouton looked at Lily with enhanced respect. 

“Now take La Solitude as the point of departure, and try 
to concentrate your mind on where you found the body,” said 
M. Popeau, handing Lily back the cane. 

She moved the point slowly, hesitatingly, down the map. 

“Surely you are going too far I” cried M. Popeau. 

“Perhaps I am ” 

She knitted her brow in some distress. “Do you remem- 
ber the place where our taxicab stopped?” she asked. 

“Of course I do — ^it's marked here.” 

He took the wand from her hand. “Here it is — this little 
white spot.” 

“It was just below there,” said Lily. 


84 The Lonely House 

“Was it? How very strange!” exclaimed M. Popeau. 
And then he looked at the other man. “Do you remember 
what happened just there, six years ago, the last time I was 
at Monte Carlo, Bouton?” 

The other shook his head. 

“The affair of the Mexican millionaire!” exclaimed M. 
Popeau. 

The Commissioner of Police turned round quickly. “I 
remember all about it now ! Why, you’re right — it was just 
at that spot that he was found dead, too. What a strange 
coincidence! They mostly do it, as you know, within a 
very short distance of the Casino. You’d be astonished to 
know the number of poor devils who go and destroy them- 
selves in that rather lonely place just beyond the station. 
They rush out of the Casino full of anguish and despair, 
and wander down the road. I always have a man stationed 
on point duty there — ^he has stopped more than one poor fel- 
low from destro)dng himself. Ah, our beautiful, brilliant 
Monte Carlo has a very melancholy reverse side, has it 
not?” and he sighed. 

But M. Popeau was still staring at the map. “It is in- 
deed an amazing coincidence !” he muttered. “The more one 
thinks of it, the more amazing it is.” 

“Yes, it certainly is a very curious thing that the Mexican 
should have been found in that very plantation,” said the 
Police Commissioner thoughtfully, “but life’s full of odd 
coincidences.” 

“It will be quite easy for your people to find the body 
without further troubling Mademoiselle, will it not?” 

“Certainly it will,” said M. Bouton. “Mademoiselle must 
try to forget this painful incident; and if I may offer a 
word of advice — ” he waited, and looked rather searchingly 
into Lily’s candid, open face — “I counsel that Mademoiselle 
does not talk of what happened to any friends she may 
have in Monte Carlo. It naturally annoys the Casino Ad- 
ministration when these painful accidents are made the sub- 
ject of gossip. Can we rely on Mademoiselle’s discretion? 


The Lonely House 


85 


Is it necessary that she should tell anyone about the matter?” 

A troubled look came over Lily’s face. “I feel I ought 
to tell the Count and Countess Polda,” she said reluctantly. 
“For they knew the poor man quite well.” 

“Did they, indeed ?” exclaimed the Commissioner of Police. 
“You did not tell me that, Mademoiselle.” He looked sur- 
prised. “Then can you tell me the suicide’s name?” 

M. Popeau was standing behind M. Bouton, and Lily was 
astonished to see how upset he looked — ^he even made a 
sign to her to stop talking. She hesitated. But M. Bouton 
looked straight into her face and said sharply: “I don’t 
understand! I thought Mademoiselle had come across the 
dead body of an unknown man, I had no idea that she 
knew who the man was/^ 

He turned on M. Popeau. “You did not tell me that!” 
he exclaimed. 

“There was nothing to tell,” said M. Popeau quietly. 
“Mademoiselle did not see the dead man’s face. She thinks 
it possible the body she saw was that of a man who dined 
at La Solitude about a fortnight ago. That is all.” 

“Only a week ago!” corrected Lily. “And I am sure 
it was the man I saw. He wore a peculiar kind of gold 
bangle or bracelet on his wrist, and there was a gold bangle 

on the wrist of ” she faltered, overcome with the vision 

her own words evoked of that stiff, stark arm lying across 
her path. 

“What was his name and nationality?” asked M. Bouton, 
taking a writing-pad and pencil off the table. 

“His name was Ponting,” said Lily slowly, “P.O.N.T.- 
I.N.G., and I think he said he came from Pernambuco.” 

M. Bouton suddenly uttered an exclamation of mingled 
surprise and relief. He rapidly unlocked a drawer in his 
writing-table, and took a packet out of it. “Your dis- 
covery, Mademoiselle, sets a mystery at rest ! I was a fool 
not to think of it at once, for we have had urgent inquiries 
all this last week about this very man. But it never occurred 
to any of us that he had committed suicide — everything 


86 The Lonely House 

seemed against it! This is another proof that in a place 
like Monte Carlo you never can tell,” he went on, addressing 
his French friend. ^‘People come here when they are des-* 
perate — not only desperate with regard to money — ^though, 
of course, that is the most common case — ^but desperate with 
regard to other things ; they come to drown disappointment 
and sorrow — ^they fail in doing so, and then they kill them- 
selves ! Perhaps that is what happened to this man Ponting.” 

'‘Yet he seemed quite happy,” observed Lily thought- 
fully. 

M. Bouton hardly heard what she said. He was show- 
ing his friend and colleague the little packet of letters he 
held in his hand. 

Lily waited a moment or- two. “Then I may tell the 
Count and Countess Polda?” she asked. 

“I think we shall save you that trouble. Mademoiselle. 
After the body is found we shall have to ask the Count and 
Countess to submit to a short interrogation. We should 
not dream of troubling them were it not that this Mr. Pon- 
ting had a friend who is much distressed at his disappearance. 
We shall be glad, therefore, to know exactly how he spent 
his last evening. Did you yourself see him leave La Soli- 
tude ?” 

“No,” said Lily. “I had only arrived that day, and I 
went to bed early; but I heard the Countess say good-bye 
to him about a quarter of an hour after I had gone upstairs. 
As the house is not very substantially built, one hears every- 
thing.” 

“That is an important point,” said M. Bouton. “You 
heard him leave the house, and then no more ? You did not 
hear the shot fired. Mademoiselle?” 

“I heard nothing at all. But I was very, very tired, and 
I went to sleep at once.” 

She wondered if she ought to say anything about the 
burglary which had taken place that night. Then she re- 
membered what both the Countess and the banker had said 
that bringing the police into the affair would only make a 


The Lonely House 87 

fuss and an unpleasantness for nothing. So she remained 
silent. 

At last M. Bouton conducted them to his front door. He 
bowed to Lily, and shook hands warmly with M. Popeau. 

Without knowing it,” he exclaimed, “you’ve done me 
a great service, my good friend! I confess I do not like 
being disturbed on Sunday — ^the weekdays are full enough 
of trouble and of perplexing affairs. But I am more glad 
than I can say that what I may call the Ponting mystery 
has been cleared up in so satisfactory a manner. WeVe 
had a great deal of worry over the matter. But the cleverest 
of my detectives — I call him fhe bloodhound — was convinced 
that M. Ponting was not only alive, but far from here en- 
gaged in having a very good time! The theory of suicide 
we had completely dismissed from bur minds. Does not 
this show how wrong even the most experienced people may 
be when dealing with human life and human problems?” 

After they had walked a little way in silence, Lily sud- 
denly turned to her companion and exclaimed : “I’m afraid 
you did not approve of my telling M. Bouton that I knew 
about poor Mr. Ponting?” 

‘‘As a general rule, my dear young lady, the innocent 
cannot say too little to the police. But I confess that this 
time I was wrong ; I’m very glad that you spoke with com- 
plete frankness, though I do not suppose the Count and 
Countess will be pleased—” 

“I don’t see why they should mind,” but even as she ut- 
tered the words a slight feeling of discomfort came over 
Lily. 

M. Popeau smiled rather mysteriously. 

“People do not care to be mixed up with affairs of this 
kind, especially in Monte Carlo. You heard what our friend 
said ? The Count and Countess, though they have lived here 
many years, have never troubled the police. They have 
never even had a row with one of their servants! Well, 
now that record is broken. A suicide has been found oh 
their property.” 


88 The Lonely House 

'‘Not on their property,” corrected Lily. “Near their 
property.” 

“That makes it all the harder for them to be brought 
into the matter,” said M. Popeau good-humouredly. “Mr. 
Ponting ill-repaid their hospitality.” 

At that moment they both caught sight of Captain Stuart 
hurrying down towards them. 

“Well?” he called out, “is it all right?” There was a 
note of anxiety in his voice. 

“Yes,” replied M. Popeau, “quite all right! And now 
we must think of something to distract and interest Miss 
Fairfield for at least two or three hours. By that time every- 
thing up there at La Solitude will be over, and I do not 
want her to be associated with it in any way.” 

Captain Stuart nodded. He thoroughly approved. 

“I don’t suppose you feel in the mood for the Casino?” 
He turned to the girl. “Besides, it’s Sunday — and even 
I have an old-fashioned prejudice against gambling on Sun- 
day !” 

“Why shouldn’t we go up to the Golf Club?” suggested the 
Frenchman. “It’s quite a pleasant expedition, and from 
there it’s an agreeable walk to La Solitude.” 


CHAPTER IX 


HE afternoon that Lily Fairfield spent on what is, 



1 perhaps, the most beautiful of all the golf courses in 
Europe will ever be remembered by her as a delightful 
interlude in a very troubled time. 

For three hours she forgot the terrible thing which had 
happened to her that morning, or, if she could not entirely 
forget it, it receded into the background of her mind. 

Everything is made easy — almost too easy — for the visitor 
to Monte Carlo. Thus Lily found an excellent set of clubs 
provided for her, and with M. Popeau looking on benevo- 
lently, she and Captain Stuart had a splendid game. 

But when, at last, the three of them stood in front of the 
shabby front door of La Solitude a feeling of apprehension, 
almost of terror, came over the girl. 

‘T hope Aunt Cosy won’t we angry with me for having 
gone to the Commissioner of Police,” she said nervously. 

‘‘You were quite right to do so,” said Captain Stuart 
shortly. 

As for M. Popeau, he exclaimed, “Do let me come in with 
you, dear little lady! I can promise so to put the matter 
to the Countess that she will not be angry.” 

But Lily shook her head. “I’m not such a coward as 
that.” She added, impatiently, “I do wish Cristina would 
come and open the door! I can’t think why they keep it 
locked. It’s literally the only way into the house, unless one 
of the drawing-room windows is open. In England there’s 
always a nice back door to a house of this sort.” 

As she said the words, the door did open, and Cristina 
cautiously peered out to see who was there. The poor old 
waiting woman was very pale, and the two men, as well as 
Lily, were startled at her look of illness and of fear. 


89 


90 


The Lonely House 


‘^Something terrible has happened!” Cristina muttered. 
“I fear I cannot ask the gentlemen to come in. We are 
in trouble here.” 

“I’m glad they know. That will save you a disagreeable 
moment,” whispered M. Popeau, as he pressed Lily’s hand. 

Cristina cut short Lily’s farewells, and shut the door al- 
most rudely in the Frenchman’s face. 

“I’m sorry you have come back,” she said to Lily, in a very 
low tone. “I wish you had stayed away till dinner-time! A 
fearful thing has happened !” 

“I know,” said Lily soothingly. “You mean about Mr. 
Pouting.” 

“You know?” echoed Cristina amazed, and she turned a 
startled look on the girl’s face. 

“It was I who found the body and told the police,” the 
girl answered quietly. “But there is nothing to be fright- 
ened about, Cristina, though, of course, it is very, very sad.’' 

She was speaking in her usual clear voice, when suddenly 
the drawing-room opened and the Countess peeped out. Her 
face was dusky red, and convulsed with anger. 

“What is all this noise?” she exclaimed in French; “we 
cannot hear ourselves speak !” 

Then, as she saw who it was, she went on, more quietly, 
in English, “Something very, very sad has occurred. You 
remember Mr. Pouting coming here to dinner? Well, after 
leaving the house that unhappy man, who had evidently been 
losing heavily at the tables, went out and killed himself. A 
cruel return for our hospitality ! I desire you, Lily, to come 
in and tell this gentleman what you remember of that 
evening.” 

Lily looked at the speaker, astonished at her state of agi- 
tation. The Countess Polda’s face looked terrible under the 
bright, auburn-brown hair on her “front.” Her hands were 
trembling. Even her voice seemed changed — it was as if she 
had lost control over it. 

“Come in! Come in!” she cried impatiently, and yet she 
herself had been blocking the door. 


The Lonely House 91 

Lily walked through into the drawing-room, and she saw 
that the Count, who also looked disturbed, though much less 
so than his wife, was sitting at his green baize card-table, 
apparently affixing his name to some kind of paper. 

Opposite to him stood a man of about forty. The stranger 
had a pleasant, keen face, and though he was not in uniform, 
Lily felt sure he had come from M. Bouton. Somehow, she 
could hardly have told why, the sight of him reassured 
her. 

“Come, come,’’ he said good-humouredly, “you must not 
allow this to disturb yoU so much, Madame la Comtesse. 
Desperate men are not likely to show much delicacy, even to 
those who have been kind to them. We are very glad indeed 
that the body has been found. My chief said to me only 
two hours ago that he owed a great debt to the young Eng- 
lish lady.” 

“The young English lady?” repeated the Countess. 
“Whom do you mean?” 

“It was this lady, was it not, who found the body?” he 
replied, looking at Lily. 

“Yes, 1 found the body,” Lily answered falteringly, for 
the Countess was now looking at her with a fearful expres- 
sion of questioning anger on her face. 

The man went on: “M. Bouton is most grateful to this 
young lady for having come and told him at once, to-day. 
But for Mademoiselle, the body of this man, Ponting, might 
have lain there a whole year ! As you of course know, M. 
le Comte, that piece of property which lies just below your 
own orange grove belongs to that eccentric Sir John 
Cranion.” 

“I know,” said the Count, looking up, “for I myself have 
tried to buy the property more than once. I wish more 
than ever now that I had done so, for we should have had 
it properly enclosed, and then this tragedy could not have 
happened there.” 

“It would have happened somewhere else,” said the French- 
man philosophically. “And now, if Madame la Comtesse 


c)2 The Lonely House 

will also put her signature to this statement, I shall not 
trouble you any more, ladies and gentlemen.’’ 

He waited a moment. ‘‘By great good luck, Mr. Ponting’s 
partner happened to be in Monte Carlo this afternoon. One 
of my men came across him in front of the Casino— they 
have all grown only too familiar with his appearance. He 
is, of course, very much distressed, and, what is more, fool- 
ishly convinced that his friend did not kill himself !” 

“How can anyone feel any doubt about it?” cried Count 
Polda. “Everything points to the fact that the unhappy 
man, after leaving us, went off and shot himself. We all 
thought him very excited, and in a strange kind of mood — 
did we not?” he glanced at his wife, and at Lily. 

“The funeral will take place to-morrow morning at the 
English cemetery,” went on the police-agent. “And that 
ends the story.” 

“Would you like to interrogate my English niece?” asked 
the Countess suavely. She was beginning to recover her 
composure. 

“No, I do not think it will be necessary. My chief 
himself saw the young lady, and heard what she had 
to say.” 

He took his hat from one of the chairs. “And now,” he 
said politely, “I must bid you au revoir, and I hope it will be 
a long time before we have occasion to meet again !” 

“Would you like to go out by this short way?” asked the 
Count obligingly. He opened a window, and the man, who 
Lily now felt sure was “the bloodhound,” passed rapidly 
through it, with a bow and a smile, and began walking 
across the lawn. 

The Countess suddenly touched her husband’s arm. “Run 
after him,” she exclaimed, “and ask at what time the funeral 
will take place. I think it would be a mark of respect on 
your part to attend.” 

He hesitated preceptibly. 

“Do what I suggest !” she said urgently. “I am sure, An- 
gelo, that I am right — quite, quite sure!” 


The Lonely House 93 

The Count looked at his wife, and, after that look, he too 
went through the window, and began running after their late 
unwelcome guest. 

And then all at once there crept over Lily Fairfield an 
acute, unreasoning sensation of acute, unreasoning fear. She 
told herself that her nerves were all upset; that everything 
was all right now. But 

The Countess shut the window; she turned round and 
put her arms akimbo; and Lily had nevei thought such 
anger and venomous rage could fill a human countenance. 
Instinctively she moved back, till a chair stood between 
herself and the woman who was now looking at her with 
such a terrible expression cn her face. 

‘T do not at all understand what happened,” said the 
Countess at last, and though she did not raise her voice 
there was something very menacing in the tone in which she 
uttered these commonplace words. ‘‘Tell me exactly what 
took place this morning. How was it that you were away 
from the road? Why were you wandering in that deserted 
garden? Were you alone, or in company?” 

Lily looked at her straight in the eyes. 

“Of -.course I was alone. Aunt Cosy. I was on my way 
to church. As it was still early, I thought I would go down 
to the town by a new way.” 

Her voice faltered and broke, and she burst into bitter 
tears. 

The Countess pointed imperiously to one of the moth- 
eaten armchairs, and the trembling girl sat down on it, and 
buried her face in her hands. 

“What I really want to discover” — ^the words were uttered 
with slow, terrible emphasis — “is why you went to the police 
without consulting us? Surely it would have been easy to 
come back to the house and tell your Uncle Angelo of your 
discovery?” 

And then, perhaps fortunately, for Lily would have been 
hard put to it to give a truthful answer to that question, the 
Countess, carried away by her feelings of indignation and 


94 The Lonely House 

outraged wrath, hurried on, without waiting for the weeping 
girl’s reply : 

“But no ! It seemed simpler to go down and let all Monte 
Carlo know what had happened! I suppose it was your 
friend, Captain Stuart, who advised you to do that foolish 
thing — ^to go to the police?” 

Lily raised her tear-stained face. 

“No, it was not Captain Stuart,” she said dully. “I 
thought of it myself, Aunt Cosy. It was the first thing one 
would have done in England.” 

“England is not Monte Carlo!” exclaimed the Countess 
harshly. “How often have I to tell you that ? I shall never 
forget this afternoon — never! Thank God, my Beppo was 
not here !” 

And then a most fortunate inspiration came to Lily Fair- 
field. 

“The Commissioner of Police spoke very highly of you 
and of Uncle Angelo,” she said falteringly. “He seemed 
very sorry that such a thing should have happened so near 
La Solitude. He said you were related to the Prince of 
Monaco — I never knew that. Aunt Cosy.” 

“It is not a relationship which we have ever presumed 
upon,” said the Countess rather stiffly, but her face cleared 
somewhat, “though it is true that hundreds of years ago a 
Grimaldi married a Polda. Still, I am glad of what you 
tell me, Lily, and it will console your uncle for the painful 
ordeal he had to go through. You will understand why 
I feel so angry and, yes, so hurt, that you have brought this 
trouble upon us, when I tell you that your Uncle Angelo had 
the awful task of identifying the body!” 

An exclamation of regret and concern came from Lily’s 
lips. She did indeed feel very sorry for the Count. 

“And then,” went on the Countess, “the affair has so upset 
Cristina! I really thought at one moment she would drop 
dead. But now” — she tried to smile, but it was much more 
like a grimace — “now we must all try and forget that it 
happened !” She took a turn about the room. “And I beg 


The Lonely House 95 

of you most earnestly, dear child, not to say a word about 
it to my son.” 

“I promise that I will not do so,” said Lily eagerly. 

‘‘I am glad for your sake that that odious man did not 
ask for a statement from you. Had you to sign an3rthing 
at the police station? To Lily’s intense relief, she now spoke 
quite amiably, and her face was again set in its usual grim, 
handsome immobility. 

“No, I was not asked to sign anything,” said the girl. “In 
fact, the Commissioner did not ask me many questions. He 
only wanted to know at what time poor Mr. Ponting left La 
Solitude, and I told him that as I was going up to bed I had 
heard you say good night to him. And, of course, of course. 
Aunt Cosy ” she blushed, and looked distressed. 

“Yes?” said the Countess uneasily, “yes? What is it Lily? 
Is there anything that you’ve not yet told me?’* A look of 
apprehension came into her eyes. 

“I did not think it necessary to say that I thought poor 
Mr. Ponting had had too much to drink.” 

“I’m glad you kept that to yourself!” There was great 
relief in the Countess’s voice. “I did not like to ask you, 
dear child, but, of course, I have had that painful memory 
in my mind all the time. To people like us there is some- 
thing so strange in the love of strong drink. The first timd 
that poor man came here he took a little too much, and I 
remonstrated with the Count — I begged him not to bring 
him again. But alas ! Angelo has so kind a heart, and the 
poor fellow seemed so lonely.” 

“I suppose one cannot help a guest having too much 
wine ?” said Lily hesitatingly. There had come back to her 
mind the way the Count had filled up his guest’s glass again 
and again. 

“It is difficult — ^very difficult ! But you may have noticed 
that I offered him water?” 

“Yes, I did notice that,” said Lily. 

“Can you remember any of the questions asked you by 
that M. Bouton?” 


96 The Lonely House 

Lily shook her head. “He asked me hardly any ques- 
tions. He seemed exceedingly glad that ! felt so sure it was 
Mr. Ponting’s body, for he had been having a lot of trouble 
over the poor man’s disappearance.” 

Lily got up from the chair on which she was sitting. 

“Please forgive me,” she said pleadingly. “I am very, 
very sorry that I’ve brought all this trouble and worry on 
you and on Uncle Angelo. It wasn’t my fault,” 

“No, it was not your fault,” said the Countess graciously, 
“and I must ask you, dear child, to accept my own apology. 
I fear you thought me rather unkind. But you do not 
know — English people never can understand — how very dis- 
agreeable any fracas with the police can be, in either France 
or Italy. It means such endless trouble !” 

The Countess walked to the window, she opened it and 
looked out into the semi-darkness. 

“I suppose Angelo walked on down the hill with that 
man — perhaps to find out for himself the hour of the funeral. 
Do you mean to go to it, dear child ?” 

The question surprised Lily. “Would you like me to do 
so. Aunt Cosy ?” 

The Countess remained silent for a few moments. 

“Yes,” she said decidely. “It would be a mark of respect. 
I will not offer to go myself. There are things I must do 
before the arrival of my beloved Beppo. And then I could 
not walk up the hill again. I should have to have a carriage. 
You and Uncle Angelo do not mind walking.” She lowered 
her voice : “With regard to Cristina, encourage her to think 
of other things. Fortunately, she is fond of Beppo. His 
coming will be a distraction and pleasure to us all. Oh, my 
dear Lilly, I do hope that my son and you will be good pals — 
as you so funnily say in England !” 

It was past the hour at which they generally sat down to 
their simple evening meal. And Lily and the Countess were 
already in the dining-room when Count Polda walked in and 
sat down. 


The Lonely House 97 

His wife was looking at him anxiously, ‘‘Is it all right?” 
she said in English. And he replied in French: “Yes — 
quite all right. The funeral is at ten o'clock to-morrow 
morning.” He sighed. “I am hungry !” he exclaimed plain- 
tively. 

The Countess got up and went to the sideboard. From 
there she brought back a beautiful liqueur decanter which 
Lily knew contained brandy. 

“Have a little of this. It will do you good,” she said 
solicitously. 

There was a pause. “Lily is very sorry that she brought 
all this trouble upon us, Angelo. But it was not her fault, 
poor child. She did not know any better. We must try and 
forget this tragedy — and nothing must be said of all this to 
Beppo, or in front of Beppo.” 

“No, indeed I” said the Count. 

And then his wife remarked rather suddenly: “I hope 
you remembered to order a wreath, Angelo?” 

“Yes, I did remember.” 

“Ah, that is right! I have told Lily that I should like 
her to go with you to Mr. Ponting's funeral.” 

“That is an excellent idea. Cosy!” The Count smiled. 
For once he looked really pleased, and Lily told herself, not 
for the first time, that he was a very odd sort of man. 


CHAPTER X 


A S she got up the next morning Lily began to shrink 
inexpressibly from the thought of going to poor Mr. 
Ponting’s funeral. She longed to summon up courage and 
tell Aunt Cosy that she really felt too ill. As so often 
happens after a shock, she felt far worse to-day than she 
had done even immediately after her fearful discovery. 

She went downstairs with laggard steps, to be met in 
the corridor below by the Countess. 

“There is a quarter of an hour before you and Uncle 
Angelo must start,” she exclaimed, “and I have told Cristina 
to boil you an egg. Coffee is not sufficiently substantial. 

She shepherded the unresisting girl into the kitchen. 
Cristina’s eyes were swollen; she looked as if she had been 
crying all night. 

“Now sit down,” commanded the Countess, “and eat 
:what you call in England a good breakfast. It is right to 
show sorrow when something sad has happened, but do 
not look as if you yourself were dying! I do not want 
people to think that you, Lily, were in love with Mr. Pou- 
ting.” 

Lily felt a shock of disgust. What a vulgar, heartless 
thing to say! She grew very red, and Aunt Cosy laughed 
harshly. 

And yet the Countess Polda was feeling far better disposed 
to the girl than was usual with her. As she watched Lily 
daintily eating her egg, she was telling herself that her 
guest was certainly a very pretty girl. The type, too, that 
Beppo admired — ^that fair, rather delicate, English type dow- 
ered with an exquisitely clear complexion and what the 
French call hlond cendre hair. 

The pleasant thought that her beloved son would cer- 


The Lonely House 99 

tainly approve of Lily cheered up the Countess mightily, 
and when Lily stood up she patted the girl’s hand. “You 
look very nice,” she said. “That black coat and skirt and 
the little toque compose just the right costume to wear on 
such a sad occasion as this.” 

Tho Count’s voice was heard in the passage. “Cosy! 
Cosy!” he called out impatiently. 

The Countess hurried out of the kitchen. And then Cris- 
tina seized Lily by the arm; “You will say a prayer for 
me,” she said in a trembling voice, “will you not. Made- 
moiselle ?” 

Lily was touched. “Yes,” she said, a little shyly, “I will 
certainly do so, Cristina.” 

“I shall never forget yesterday — never — never — never!” 
Cristina uttered the words in a low voice, but with a terrible 
intensity. 

“But you must try and forget yesterday,” said Lily firmly. 
“I mean to force myself to put out of my mind what hap- 
pened yesterday morning. That, honestly, was much worse 
than anything that can have happened to you afterwards.” 

“Yes, indeed! Had I been you I should have fainted!” 

At that moment, “Lily! Lily!” came from the passage. 
“Come, my child, come ! Your Uncle Angelo is quite ready.” 

Lily ran into the corridor, and then, had it not been such 
a sad occasion, she would have burst out laughing ! For the 
Count was dressed in an extraordinary costume. He wore 
a seedy old black dress suit, and on his head was a dirty 
white Panama hat with a deep black crape band. But Uncle 
Angelo was obviously quite unaware of the ludicrous effect 
he produced in the English girl’s eyes. 

“Come, come,” he said impatiently. “I want to be in 
good time at the cemetery, for I shall have to leave at once 
after the funeral. There are several things I have to do in 
the town.” 

“Do not forget to order the carriage for Beppo to-mor- 
row,” called out the Countess. 

“Is it likely that I should forget that?” There was a 


loo The Lonely House 

touch of scornful ill-temper in the Count's usually placid 
tone. 

The two curiously unlike companions walked down the 
hill in almost absolute silence. Lily often felt consciously 
glad that Uncle Angelo was such a very quiet, reserved 
person. Aunt Cosy’s constant torrent of talk tired and 
bewildered the girl. 

‘'The cemetery is on the Nice road," said Count Polda 
at last; “this is the shortest way to it." They were now 
going down a rough stairway cut in the hill-side. 

It was still so early that there were only a few country 
folk laden with country produce trudging towards Monte 
Carlo. A delicious breeze blew up from the sea on to the 
broad, exquisitely-kept carriage-road which links Monaco 
with Beaulieu. 

They had been walking along that road for only a few 
minutes when they were joined by M. Popeau. Lily was 
secretly very glad to see him, yet she was also surprised — 
not so surprised however, as he was to see her. 

“He turned courteously to Count Polda. “I have been 
wondering if you and Mademoiselle would care to go with 
me to the Prince of Monaco’s beautiful aquarium^ — I mean, 
of course, after the sad ceremony is over?" 

“I fear I cannot have the pleasure you so amiably pro- 
pose," muttered the Count. “But I do not see why my 
niece should not avail herself of your kind thought. It 
would, as you say, distract her mind," He spoke in a weary, 
preoccupied tone, as if hardly thinking of what he was 
saying. 

They turned into the gate of the cemetery, and made their 
way to that portion of it where those English folk who die 
at Monte Carlo are reverently laid to rest. They soon came 
to the place they were looking for, and found a tiny gather- 
ing round the open grave. Lily was the only woman there, 
and her eyes filled with tears as she listened to the beautiful, 
solemn words of the English Burial Service being read over 
poor Mr. Ponting’s coffin. 


The Lonely House loii 

Short as was the ceremony, it was scarcely over before 
Count Polda detached himself unobtrusively from the group 
of mourners, and disappeared in the direction of the 
gate. 

As, slowly, Lily and M. Popeau walked away together, 
she suddently heard herself addressed in a voice unknown 
to her. 

“Are you Miss Fairfield? If so, may I have a word with 
you, madam?” 

She looked round, startled. A tall man, obviously an 
Englishman, stood before her. 

“Yes,” she said falteringly, “I am Miss Fairfield.” 

“My name is Sharrow. I was Mr. Ponting’s friend and 
partner. I understand that you found the body?” 

Then M. Popeau intervened. “Perhaps you will pardon 
me, sir, for saying that the police have all the particulars 
of that painful occurrence.” 

“I have heard all they have to say ; but I hope Miss Fair- 
field will not mind my asking her a few questions ?” 

M. Popeau looked very much annoyed and disturbed, 
perhaps unreasonably so, and Lily was thankful indeed that 
Count Polda was no longer there. After all, it was natural 
that this Mr. — what was his name? — Sharrow should wish 
to speak to her. She nerved herself for what must be, at 
best, a rather painful little conversation. 

Mr. Sharrow’s next words took her by surprise. 

“I think you will agree with me,” he said, slowly and 
impressively, “that Mr. Ponting was the very last man in 
the world to take his own life.” 

Lily hesitated. She really did not know what to answer. 
And then M. Popeau again intervened. 

“You forget, sir, that this young lady hardly knew your 
unfortunate friend.” 

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Sharrow rudely. “She knew him 
quite well. He had been, to my knowledge, at least six or 
seven times to La Solitude. More than once I wanted him 
to take me up there, but no — he seemed to think that it would 


102 The Lonely House 

be indiscreet — ^that the Poldas were quiet people who would 
prefer to entertain one rather than two.” 

“But I had only arrived at Monte Carlo on the day he 
came to dinner there for the last time,” exclaimed Lily. 
“I did have a few minutes’ talk with him alone, just before 
we went into the dining room — ^but that was all.” 

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Sharrow. “I did not 
know what you have just told me.” 

“He seemed very happy,” she said slowly, “and yes, I must 
say that he did not seem to me in the least the sort of man 
to kill himself.” 

Her evident sincerity touched the stranger, as did, too, 
her young, girlish charm of manner. 

“I wish you would tell me exactly what did happen on 
that fatal evening,” he said earnestly. “The whole thing 
is so mysterious to me ! Ponting had promised some friends 
of ours to dine with them and then to spend the evening 
at the Club. Unluckily I had an engagement at Nice, or 
I should have been there too. As it was, they waited 
on and on for him, but he neither came nor sent a 
message.” 

“That’s very strange,” said Lily, “for I know that his 
cabman was told to take them a message.” 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said M. Popeau drily. “Cab- 
men are the most untrustworthy of messengers!” 

“Oh, so he gave a message to the cabman?” said Mr. 
Sharrow slowly. “Of course, I didn’t know that. But 
what made him change his mind, Miss Fairfield? Surely 
he went up to La Solitude in order to tell the Count and 
Countess Polda that he couldn’t have the pleasure of dining 
with them?” 

“I expect,” said Lily reluctantly, “that he saw how an- 
noyed tliey were at his change of plan. They’re old-fash- 
ioned people, the sort of people who make rather a fuss 
about having anyone to a meal, even to tea” — a slight 
smile quivered over her face, and M. Popeau nodded — “and 
the Countess was rather disagreeable in her manner, when 


The Lonely House 103 

Mr. Ponting said he could not stay. I think they were 
really hurt/’ she added. ‘‘They had got fond of him, and 
they had set their hearts on his spending his last evening 
with them ; so, suddenly, he made up his mind that he would 
do so.” 

“You’ve relieved my mind very much,” Mr. Sharrow 
was speaking quite politely now. “There seemed such an 
extraordinary mystery about the whole thing ! But what you 
tell me clears it up. I should like to ask you one other ques- 
tion. About what time did Ponting leave La Solitude?” 

“I had a very long, tiring journey,” said Lily frankly, 
“and I went up to bed quite early, before he left. Still, 
I heard the Countess Polda say good-bye to him — I should 
think a little before ten.” 

“That fits in with my theory.” Mr. Sharrow nodded. 
“I think he left La Solitude with the idea of catching the 
ten-thirty train, and that then, on his way down to the 
station, he was waylaid and murdered.” 

“Perhaps that was what did happen.” 

But Mr. Sharrow was going on, as if speaking to himself, 
though addressing her. 

“In this cursed place,” he said, “the police are so used 
to coming across suicides that they won’t admit the prob- 
ability of murder — ^that must be very convenient for the 
kind of bandits who infest Monte Carlo! Why, they’ve 
had the most awful gang of thieves here during this last 
fortnight. The Commissioner of Police told me himself 
that they were desperate men who stuck at nothing. One 
of them when caught yesterday made a slash at his captor 
with a razor, and hurt him most awfully.” 

“But is it likely that any of that gang would have been 
in that lonely place? It’s a sort of deserted garden, with 
boards up, warning people that it’s private property.” 

“I know — I know ! Of course I’ve been there ” He 

spoke with a touch of impatience. 

“And then,” said Lily, “surely a thief would have taken 
away that curious kind of gold bangle poor Mr. Ponting 


104 The Lonely House 

wore? It was by that bangle/’ she went on in a low voice, 
"‘that I identified him — I didn’t see his face.” 

The words she uttered brought back very vividly her ter- 
rible experience, and her lips quivered. 

Mr. Sharrow looked at her with concern. 

‘‘Forgive me,” he said impulsively, “for asking you all 
these questions; but Pouting has a mother out there, and 
you know she’ll want to hear everything.” 

“There isn’t much to tell,” said Lily. “I was going down 
to church yesterday morning, and I rather foolishly tried 
to find a short cut, and — and — quite suddenly I saw an arm 
stretched across my path” — she stopped, overwhelmed with 
the recollection. ‘T saw something gleaming — it was Mr. 
Ponting’s bangle !” 

“Yes,” interjected M. Popeau. “If your theory is correct, 
sir, why did the thieves leave this bracelet?” 

“They took everything else,” said Mr. Sharrow shortly. 
“Luckily, he hadn’t much on him — perhaps thirty or forty 
pounds. But he had certain identification papers — a pass- 
port, and so on. They also disappeared. All that was left 
was the bangle, and his watch and chain. I don’t suppose 
altogether they were worth five pounds. The watch was 
only a plain silver watch, but he had worn it through all his 
fighting, and he was fond of it. He told me once he wouldn’t 
exchange it for the finest gold chronometer that was ever 
made.” 

Mr. Sharrow’s voice became charged with emotion. “I 
dare say you gathered that he was a rough diamond. Miss 
Fairfield? But he was a thoroughly good chap, a splendid 
man, straight as a die, and generous — one of the most gen- 
erous chaps I ever met!” 

“Yes,” said Lily slowly, “I know that. He tried to make 
me accept a beautiful little gold snuffbox he had bought, 
out of kindness, from a poor old lady who had lost her 
money at the tables.” 

“You never told me that,” said M. Popeau, surprised. 
“Have you got the box?” 


The Lonely House 105 

Lily shook her head. “Oh, no. I couldn’t take such a 
valuable present from a stranger.” 

“Then that was also included in the haul the thieves 
made?” exclaimed Mr. Sharrow. “But I’m very glad I’ve 
heard about that box, for it might help to catch Ponting’s 
murderers. It’s just a chance, to tell you the truth, that 
they didn’t make a much bigger haul. Ponting was an ec- 
centric chap in some ways — the sort of man who doesn’t 
trust banks. As a rule he carried about with him a very 
big sum. But on that very day — ^the day, I mean, that he 
was killed — I got him to deposit the kind of satchel thing 
in which he kept his money in the safe of the hotel where 
he and I were staying at Nice. The manager there has 
hit on the rather clever idea of having a number of little 
safes, which he lets out at five francs a day. I persuaded 
Ponting that it would be very much safer to leave his 
securities — for part of the money was in what they call 
‘bonds to bearer’ — there. It was insane to come every day, 
as he used to do, to a place like Monte Carlo with all that 
money on him.” 

“What you tell me,” observed M. Popeau musingly, alters 
everything, Mr. Sharrow. Of course, the fact that he 
might have had what was practically a fortune on him would 
give a very strong motive for his murder!” 

“And yet,” exclaimed Mr. Sharrow impatiently, “I told 
all that to the Commissioner of Police, and it made no im- 
pression on him at all.” 

“The truth is” — ^the Frenchman spoke with some heat — 
“the authorities here at Monaco don’t want to believe that 
a murder is ever committed. In such a garden of paradise” 
— ^there came a note of deep sarcasm in his vibrant voice — 
“they never look for the snake!” 

“The police are convinced that during the eight days 
that the body lay in that orange grove some passer-by, prob- 
ably a peasant, came across the body, took everything from 
it, and naturally said nothing of his discovery,” observed 
Mr. Sharrow. 


io6 The Lonely House 

“I confess that that has been my own theory up to now/' 
said M. Popeau. ‘‘And it would take even more than your 
curious revelations as to poor Mr. Ponting's peculiar habit 
of carrying about his money to destroy that theory entirely. 
I think another thing. I can’t help suspecting that a pro- 
fessional thief, or gang of thieves, would have left the little 
gold snuff-box as well as the watch and the bracelet. They 
would naturally not care to take away something that could 
be identified positively as having belonged to their victim.” 

“On the other hand,” said Mr. Sharrow thoughtfully, “one 
would never have thought they would have left anything 
made of gold.” 

“You’re wrong there!” cried M. Popeau quickly. “Such 
folk are sometimes very superstitious. They probably 
thought that bracelet was the dead man’s mascot, and might 
bring them ill-luck! Besides, even a peasant would know 
that a thin gold band was not really valuable. Forty francs 
— fifty francs — even thirty francs might have bought it from 
what I hear.” 

And then something which seemed to the Frenchman very 
dramatic occurred. Mr. Sharrow suddenly put his hand in 
his pocket and held out a thin gold hoop. “Here it is!” he 
exclaimed. 

Lily gave a little cry and gasp. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said remorsefully. “I didn’t 
mean to startle you. Miss Fairfield. I am keeping it for 
the poor chap’s mother. This queer little bangle and the 
silver watch are the only two things I shall have to take 
back to her. It’s so pitiful! She was expecting him home 
after four years.” 

“Yes, indeed,” said Lily, and she turned away. The 
tears had welled up into her eyes. 

“Well,” said Mr. Sharrow, “there’s nothing more to say, 
I suppose. Thank you very much for having answered my 
questions so clearly. I wanted to go up and see the Count 
and Countess Polda, but I shan’t do so now. The Com- 
missioner of Police begged me not to do it. He said they’d 


The Lonely House [107 

been terribly upset about the whole thing. After all, they 
were very kind to poor Ponting. It's rather too bad they 
should have had all this worry through him, even if they did 
lead indirectly to his death." 

‘'Oh, don't say that !" said Lily, distressed. 

Deep in her heart she could not help knowing that it was 
because of her presence ^t La Solitude that the unfortunate 
man had stayed on, and this secret knowledge was a bitter 
trouble to her — one, too, which she felt she could never con- 
fide to anybody as long as she lived. 

“Well, but it's true!" persisted Mr. Sharrow. “If he 
hadn't stayed on there that evening he would be alive to-day. 
He and I would be on our way home by now." He sighed 
and held out his hand. “Good-bye, and forgive me for the 
trouble I've put you to.” 

“Good-bye," said Lily mechanically. 

M. Popeau lead the now weeping girl into a side path 
where there was a bench. 

“You must not take this sad affair too much to heart,” 
he said soothingly. “You must try and forget it.” 

“I can't forget it! I shall never forget it!" sobbed Lily. 
“I've had such a terrible time since I last saw you, M. 
Popeau. The Countess was terribly angry that I had gone 
to the police!" 

“I told you she would be,” interjected the Frenchman. 

“Yes, I know you told me so. But that didn't seem to 
make it any better!" Lily smiled, and tried to regain her 
composure. “Luckily, her son comes to-morrow, and I hope 
that will make her forget this dreadful, dreadful thing! 
But / shall never forget it.” 

“Indeed you will, and must,” said M. Popeau, and there 
came a very authoritative tone into his kind voice. “It 
is your duty to do so. Miss Fairfield. English people have 
a great sense of duty — I appeal to that sense now! You 
must put this poor man out of your mind” — ^he hesitated — 
“for ever. Now promise me ?” You know I am your friend 
— I hope I shall always be your friend. Miss Fairfield.” 


loS The Lonely House 

hope so too,” said Lily gratefully; ‘‘you’ve been 
wonderfully good to me ! I don’t know how I should have 
got through the last fortnight if it hadn’t been for 
you ” 

“If you are really grateful to me,” said M. Popeau gravely, 
“then there is one mark of your gratitude which I should 
very much appreciate.” 

“Lily looked round at him rather surprised. “Yes?” she 
said. 

“That mark of gratitude,” he said deliberately, “is to 
trust me. Mademoiselle — always come to me when you are 
in any trouble. I do not only mean now at Monte Carlo. 
I mean afterwards. When in trouble, real trouble, come to 
Papa Popeau! Although I do not often talk of it — for, 
though you may be surprised to hear it, I am what you in 
England call a modest fellow. Miss Fairfield — Papa Popeau 
has a great deal of power. Papa Popeau can do all sorts of 
strange and wonderful things to help his friends.” 

“I know he can,” said Lily gratefully. “I think that only 
Papa Popeau could have secured me such a comfortable 
journey.” 

“That is true,” he said gravely. 

He got up from the bench, and they began walking slowly 
down a cypress alley. I think Captain Stuart is waiting for 
us in the road,” he observed. 

And then. Lily — she could not have told you why — ^blushed 
very deeply. 

“You like Captain Stuart, eh?” said M. Popeau. 

He was looking straight before him and he spoke quite 
lightly, yet Lily felt a little confused. She knew that he had 
seen her blush. 

“Yes,” she said at last,” “I do like him. He seems to 
me so — so ” 

“I know,” said M. Popeau, “‘straight.’ That’s a fine 
English word. You are right. Miss Fairfield. Captain 
Stuart is a ‘white’ man — another of your English expres- 
sions that I like, that I have adopted for my own. But, 


The Lonely House '109 

Mademoiselle, he is also a jealous man. I would not like 
to make Captain Stuart jealous.” 

And then all at once Lily remembered something the 
young Scotchman had said to her, something of which he 
had had the grace to be ashamed a moment later. ‘‘For- 
eign fellows are so infernally familiar!” — ^that was what 
Captain Stuart had said to Lily Fairfield after there had 
come a laughing interchange of words between herself and 
M. Popeau. It was impossible that the Frenchman could 
have heard those words. And yet — and yet — Lily felt a 
little uncomfortable. 

“It is lucky that I am an old man,” went on her com- 
panion quietly. “Were I not an old man, I feel that our 
friend might possibly become jealous even of me. That 
would be most cruel, most unfair, and very hard on poor 
Papa Popeau! Heinf*' 

He pirouetted round on his heel for a moment, and then 
bowed. 

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “of all your servants I am the 
humblest and the most devoted, and I regret very much 
now that I did not compel you to allow me to go into the 
villa with you yesterday afternoon!” 

“I am sorry too,” said Lily in a low voice. “But I don’t 
know — I think Aunt Cosy would ‘have had it out with me 
just the same after you had gone. She didn’t say much 
till the Count and the man from the police had left the 
house, and then — oh, then, M. Popeau, I’ve never seen any- 
body so angry!” 

As they came through the gate to the cemetery they saw 
Captain Stuart’s lithe figure striding impatiently up and 
down the road. He took lily’s hand — she had taken off 
her glove — and held it tightly for a moment, then he dropped 
it. 

“I had no idea the funeral would take so long. Where 
are the other people ?” he asked. 

“There is another gate, they all went out by that, but I 
expected that you would be waiting here, my friend,” said 


no The Lonely House 

M. Popeau smoothly. “And now we are going off to a little 
restaurant in the Condamine to have a good lunch.’’ 

“I thought we were going to the Prince of Monaco’s 
aquarium,” said Lily smiling. 

“All in good time.” M. Popeau looked as happy as a 
boy. “We must make the best of to-day,” he said, “even 
if it has begun badly, for from to-morrow. Mademoiselle 
will probably be much occupied.” 

Captain Stuart looked quickly round at Lily. “Why 
that?” he asked shortly. 

And even Lily felt surprised. What could M. Popeau 
mean? 

“I think you will find that the arrival of the Countess 
Polda’s son will mean that you will be very much occupied,” 
said the Frenchman quietly. 

Captain Stuart looked disturbed. “But you don’t even 
know this fellow ?” he said, turning to Lily. “You’ve never 
seen him, have you ?” 

“No, that’s quite true. But all the same, I’m afraid M. 
Popeau is right. Only this morning the Countess told me 
that she hoped ” She waited a moment. 

“Yes?” said Stuart impatiently. “She hoped what. Miss 
Fairfield?” 

“She hoped that Beppo and I would be great friends.” 

Lily felt a little ashamed of having said that. But, after 
all, it was quite true, and she did so want to know if Captain 
Stuart would — ^mind. Rather to her disappointment he re- 
mained silent. 


CHAPTER IX 


A fter a delicious fish lunch, which included the 
celebrated bouillabaisse so delightfully sung by 
Thackeray, none of the three felt in the mood for a visit 
to the Prince’s famous aquarium. Instead, they slowly 
went up to old Monaco and lazed about in the terraced 
gardens which overhang the sea. 

After a while M. Popeau exclaimed : *T’m afraid I ought 
to go back now to the Hotel de Paris, for I’m expecting a 
message from Paris.” 

He looked at Captain Stuart and at Lily Fairfield in an 
odd, undecided way, and Captain Stuart reddened slightly 
under his tan. 'T’ll take Miss Fairfield up to La Solitude,” 
he said shortly. 

“I suppose that will be all right,” but the Frenchman 
still looked as if uncertain what to do. 

‘T can walk back to La Solitude quite well by myself,” 
said Lily smiling. 

It always amused her to notice that M. Popeau seemed 
to regard her as something fragile and delicate, that re- 
quired a great deal of looking after. 

‘T do not think that will be necessary. Mademoiselle,’* 
the Frenchman said in a rather dry voice. “I can trust our 
friend here to see that you are provided with an escort.” 

And then he took the girl’s hand and held it in his 
powerful, cool grasp for a moment or two. 

‘T am sorry you have had all this trouble,” he said 
feelingly. “You must forget that poor Mr. Pouting ever 
existed.” 

“I don’t think I shall ever forget that, M. Popeau,” 
said Lily slowly, “or your kindness to me about it all.” 
He ambled off, swaying a little as he walked. Lily 
III 


II2 


The Lonely House 


looked after the peculiar and rather ungainly figure with 
a touch of affectionate regret. 

“What a pity M. Popeau doesn’t take more exercise — 
just to keep himself in condition,” she said. It was 
strange to feel, as she did feel, that this foreigner, whom 
she had only known a fortnight, had already a very 
secure niche in her heart — in fact, a niche next to her 
dear Uncle Tom. “What a dear he is !” she exclaimed. 

And then, for her companion remained silent and began 
tracing imaginary patterns on the sandy path with his 
stick, Lily suddenly felt overwhelmed with a sensation 
very new to her — that of intense shyness. 

Strange to say — it really was strange when she came to 
think of it — this was the very first time she had ever been 
alone with a man who sat so curiously silent by her 
side, for she did not count the few moments they had 
spent together yesterday morning. She remembered a 
funny little interchange of words they had had yesterday 
on the golf course, when Captain Stuart had said in such 
a whimsical way that he wished they two could walk 
on and on “beyond the mountains’ purple rim.” It had 
been said lightly, as if in fun, and yet — though Lily’s 
mind and thoughts were then still full of her dreadful 
discovery — she had felt somehow that Captain Stuart’s 
fanciful suggestion had come from his heart. 

He turned towards her, and, as if echoing her thought: 
“I wonder if you realise that this is the very first time, if 
we except yesterday morning, IVe ever had an opportunity 
of saying a word to you alone !” he exclaimed. 

And Lily answered with that touch of unconscious hypoc- 
risy which even the most truthful girl may show in such a 
circumstance, “I suppose it is.” 

“Our good friend, M. Popeau,” Angus Stuart spoke with 
a touch of irony, “shows himself a most efficient chaperon. 
Miss Fairfield ” 

“He has very old-fashioned ideas,” said Lily a little awk- 
wardly, “but I like him all the better for that.” 


The Lonely House ;ii3 

“So do I,” her companion’s voice altered, the irony died 
out of it. “Most nice Frenchmen have old-fashioned ideas 
— I mean about young ladies. I found that out during the 
war. But all the same — well, I often feel envious of M. 
Popeau, for he seems to be always doing things for you.” 
He turned round on the bench on which they were both 
sitting, and looked at her very earnestly. “I’m a lazy chap, 
but I’d like to — to be able to prove ” 

Then he stopped dead, and Lily’s heart began to beat un- 
accountably. 

What a pity it is sometimes that two human beings can- 
not see what is passing through each other’s minds and 
hearts. What a lot of trouble, pain — aye, and danger — 
their doing so would often save. 

Angus Stuart was feeling exasperated with himself, and 
yet — and yet how could be take advantage of this unlooked- 
for opportunity? Deep in his heart he knew that he had 
fallen in love, practically at first sight, with Lily Fairfield, 
and that he was falling deeper and deeper into love each 
day. And yet, in a conventional sense, he hardly knew her, 
for they never could escape from M. Popeau. This was 
really the first time they had ever had a chance of a real 
talk together ! 

M. Popeau, well as he knew English, did not always ex- 
press himself very happily. “Take advantage of her to-day, 
my friend,” was what he had said this very morning. But 
that was the very last thing he, Angus Stuart, would care 
to do with regard to any human being, least of all with a 
girl whom he was almost angry with himself to find he 
loved. 

There had been a hint, too, about her having money. If 
there was anything in that, it also put him off. He was, as 
are so many young Scottish soldiers, “a penniless lad with a 
long pedigree.” Yet he didn’t want to marry what M. 
Popeau had called “a ’airess.” Still, deep in his heart he 
knew that all that really mattered to him was that he loved 
Lily Fairfield. During those long, dreary days at Milan he 


1 14 The Lonely House 

had thought of her the whole time — of her and of nothing 
else. 

Stuart realised that he loved everything about Lily — 
from every shining hair on her well-set head, down to the 
unpractical buckled shoes on her pretty little feet. He had 
supposed, in his simplicity, that when one fell in love the right 
words always came. But they did not come to him to-day, 
sitting there by her side in that solitary garden full of 
brilliant bloom and colour, with the marvellous blue sea 
spread out before and below them, as far as the eye could 
see. 

There are men, many men, who are in love with love. 
They delight in falling in love ; the fact that they fall out of 
love almost as easily as they fall into love makes no odds 
at all. 

But Angus Stuart was not that sort of man. Love was 
still to him an unfamiliar, rather menacing shape. He was 
ashamed of the strength of his feeling for Lily Fairfield. 
Now, at this moment, he felt he would give years of his life 
to have the right to turn round, take her in his arms and 
kiss her. What madness was this that was working in his 
brain ? 

He got up, and in a voice which shook a little, he said, 
“Shall we walk about a bit? You’ve never been up here 
in Monaco before, have you? ” 

“No,” said Lily. “And in some ways I like it even better 
than Monte Carlo. It’s as if one stepped right back into 
history, isn’t it ?” 

But she felt chilled, and somehow disappointed. She 
would have been quite content to sit on there in the lovely, 
deserted garden. She had thoughts that her acquaintance 
with Captain Stuart would make great strides once they were 
really alone together — ^that he would tell something about 
himself and his people. Why, she didn’t even know if he 
had a sister ! 

And yet in a way she did feel^ as if she already knew the 
young Scots soldier very well. It was as if they were bound 


The Lonely House 115 

‘ by a strong^ invisible link the one to the other. She remem- 
bered the wonderful gentleness and kindness of his manner 
when she had come up breathless to the hotel door yesterday 
morning, her face blurred with crying. He had seemed to 
understand exactly what she was feeling, and he had soothed 
and comforted her. But now, this afternoon, he seemed 
quite unlike the man whom she had first told of her hideous 
discovery. 

think I must be going up to La Solitude soon,” she 
said rather nervously. “Beppo Polda is arriving to-morrow, 
and they're having a kind of spring cleaning in his honour 
she smiled a little. “I said I’d help Cristina with it.” 

‘‘Surely you needn’t go yet? It’s quite early,” — ^there was 
an urgent note in Captain Stuart’s voice. 

“I ought to have been back by four. It’s that now,” she 
said. 

As they walked through the narrow, mediaeval street 
which leads to the great square in front of the Palace of 
Monaco, and as they made their way across the square to 
the kind of mall where stand the ancient iron cannons point- 
ing their toy-like muzzles towards France, the barrier, the 
impalpable, yet very real barrier, which each felt had arisen 
between them seemed to melt gradually away. 

It was Lily who first broke the barrier down. He had just 
told her that early in the war he had been given a special 
training job and had been stationed, though only for five 
weeks, near Epsom. 

“I wish we had met then,” she said quickly, regretfully. 

He answered eagerly. “I wish we had ! Those were the 
loneliest five weeks of my life !” And then he said something 
implying that though there had been a great deal in the 
papers early in the war about showing soldiers hospitality, 
not much of it had come 'his way. 

“That was perhaps a little bit of your own fault.” Lily 
wondered at her own daring, but he took it in good part. 

“I daresay it was,” he said gravely. “I — I don’t make 
friends easily. Miss Fairfield.” Something outside himself 


ii6 The Lonely House 

prompted him to add : ‘‘I’ve never had what so many chaps 
seem to have now — a woman pal.” He added, honestly 
enough, “I never felt I wanted one till now.” And then, 
more lightly, “I wish you’d think of me as you do of — of 
M. Popeau.” 

And then for the first time with him, there came a touch 
of coquetry into Lily Fairfield’s manner — ^that touch of 
coquetry which nature teaches every normal, happy-natured 
girl when the ball lies at her feet. 

“He asked me to call him ‘Papa Popeau’ to-day,” she said 
demurely. “Somehow I can’t imagine your asking anyone 
to call you ‘Papa Stuart !’ ” 

They both laughed, a mirthful, youthful peal of joint 
laughter. “And are you going to call him ‘Papa Popeau ?’ ” 
asked Captain Stuart, smiling broadly. 

She shook her head. “No, I really can’t do that — ^though 
I do like him — most awfully!” 

“I won’t ask you to call me anything yet,” he said seri- 
ously. 

He stopped speaking abruptly, and Lily, almost as if she 
was being “willed” to do it, turned and looked up into his 
face. She told herself that it was a fine, honest, sk-ong 
face — not perhaps that of an always good-tempered naan, 
but a face one would like to be looking up into if one were 
suddenly caught in a tight corner. 

“I want to feel that we’re friends — really friends,” he 
said slowly. “If anything else disagreeable or painful should 
happen to you — which God forbid 1” he added hastily, for he 
saw her face quiver and change a little — “then I hope you’ll 
come to me as readily as you would to — Papa Popeau!” 

“I did come to you,” she said in a low voice. “I thought 
of you at once, yesterday morning. Aunt Cosy was furious 
with me because I didn’t go back to the house. But some- 
how I felt I would much rather come and tell you the dread- 
ful thing which had happened to me.” 

“I’m awfully grateful to you for saying that!” Angus 
Stuart’s measured voice became charged with emotion. He 


THe Lonely House ^117 

went on, speaking a little quickly: ^‘I longed to take you to 
that police chap myself, but I knew that Popeau would do 
the job much better than I could do it. I suppose you know 
what Popeau really is?’^ 

‘‘I haven’t the slightest idea !” she exclaimed. 

"‘He’s the head of a very important branch of the French 
Secret Service. Since the war he’s been worked to death; 
and though he’s on holiday now, they keep in very close 
touch with him.” 

Lily was extremely surprised, and rather thrilled. “I won- 
der why he didn’t tell me?” she exclaimed. 

'‘He’s an odd sort of man,” said Angus Stuart thoughtfully. 
“I don’t think he’s exactly proud of his job, Miss Fairfield. 
Perhaps he’d rather you didn’t know. You’ll keep the fact 
to yourself, eh ?” 

“Of course I will !” said Lily. 

She was beginning to feel very tired, and her companion 
looked at her solicitously. 

The last few minutes had made a great difference to him. 
He felt a curious sense of peace come over him. How 
angelic of her to want to come to him when that dreadful 
thing happened to her! He would never, never forget her 
saying that to him. It was the first mile-stone in their 
friendship — a golden moment in his life. He had always 
felt that a woman worth the winning must be wooed before 
she is won. He told himself, as they walked side by side 
across the great sunlit space, that he had made a very good 
beginning. 

“Now I’m going to drive you up to La Solitude,” he 
exclaimed, with a touch of that masterfulness which some- 
how Lily liked — when it came from him. 

He hailed the solitary open cab which stood in the shadow 
of the building, now a barrack, where gambling was first 
started in the Principality fifty years ago. 

To Lily’s distress, he did not bargain with the man — ^he 
simply threw him the name, “La Solitude,” in rather indiff- 
erent French. 


ii8 The Lonely House 

The cabman whipped up his little horses, and a moment 
later they were rattling down the winding road cut in the 
side of the rock at a breakneck pace. 

All too soon — or so it seemed to them both — ^they had 
reached the clearing below the Lonely House. Angus Stuart 
gripped Lily’s hand. ^‘Then from to-day we’re pals — real 
pals ?” he said, and Lily answered very seriously, “Yes.” 

To Lily’s relief, the Countess was far too full of Beppo’s 
coming arrival on the morrow to trouble as to how the girl 
had spent her time after the funeral of George Ponting : and 
the rest of the afternoon was devoted to preparing a large 
front room, which was apparently always kept for Beppo. 

There was not very much to be done, but certain pieces of 
furniture were moved in from the other rooms in order to 
make it more comfortable for the apparently luxurious young 
man's occupation. 

When, at last, tired out by the varied emotions of the 
day, Lily was going off to bed, the Countess said briskly: 
“We must be off early to-morrow morning to choose your 
pretty frocks before Beppo’s arrival ! I shall be ready to start 
at nine o’clock. Your Uncle Angelo has ordered a carriage 
for us.” 

Lily felt taken aback, and disappointed, too. She would 
so infinitely rather have chosen her new clothes herself ! 
But there was nothing to be done, and as events turned 
out she was wrong to be disappointed, for she could not 
have done as well as she and Aunt Cosy did together. 


CHAPTER XII 


M onte carlo in the morning is very unlike Monte 
Carlo in the afternoon or evening. 

Though the sun poured down on the beautiful gardens, 
there was a sleepy, (inawakened look about the place — an 
air of deshabille. The majority of the windows of the Hotel 
de Paris were still closely shuttered, and the Paradise of 
Pleasure Seekers, as it has been somewhat cynically called, 
was now given over to the toilers whose lifework is to pro- 
vide life-ease for others. 

Dozens of gardeners were busily engaged in sweeping 
the paths of the embowered gardens, and in watering the 
brilliant, many-hued blossoms which compose the vast, car- 
pet-like parterre in front of the Casino. Ant-like convoys 
of country folk, laden wth vegetables, flowers, eggs, cheese, 
and so on, were moving slowly across the Grande Place. 

Lily looked about her with curiosity and interest. The 
Monte Carlo of the foreigner and the gambler was still fast 
asleep. Was it likely that any of the smart shops would be 
open ? 

The Countess called out to the driver and the carriage 
stopped. Then, turning to Lily, she observed: “We will 
walk to the Galerie Charles Trois. I know a very good 
dressmaker there — as a matter of fact, she is connected 
wth the Polda family, for her grandfather was steward to 
your Uncle Angelo’s grandfather. Her sister keeps an 
hotel in the Condamine.” 

The Galerie Charles Trois, with its luxurious-looking, 
magnificent restaurants and elegant shops, also looked 
strangely deserted, though it was occupied by an army of 
dusters, sweepers, and window-washers. Several of the 
shops were shut, but still, many were open, and the two 

II9 


120 


The Lonely House 

ladies walked slowly along, admiring the pretty things on 
view. What specially fascinated Aunt Cosy were the jewel- 
lers’ windows, and Lily had never seen such splendid gems 
or such gorgeous ornaments even in Bond Street or Regent 
Street. 

All that makes of Monte Carlo a place absolutely apart 
seemed this morning more vividly real to the English girl 
than anything she had seen yet. Those for whom all these 
preparations were being made, and all these luxuries laid 
out, were still heavily asleep for the most part. But the 
army of men and women who ministered to their pleasure 
were all hard at work, for the most part with an air of 
anxiety and fatigue on their faces. Even the working folk 
of Monte Carlo do not go early to bed. 

At last, 'when they were close to the end of the Galerie, 
the Countess exclaimed: “Here we are!” And Lily, look- 
ing up, saw a modest little shop, inscribed in gold letters, 
“Madame Jeanne.” In the window were displayed three 
simple-looking hats and a muslin gown, also a plain grey 
and white silk jumper, with regard to which, nevertheless, 
Lily told herself that it was one of the prettiest jumpers 
she had ever seen. 

“Now, Lily,” said the Countess earnestly, “you may abso- 
lutely trust the taste of Madame Jeanne. She was premiere 
in a great Paris house before she started for herself ; and 
though there may not seem to be much in the shop, what 
there is will be of the very finest quality; also, she will 
know what young girls are now wearing in Rome and 
Paris.” As she said those last words she walked into the 
shop, and a pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman came for- 
ward. 

“Madame la Comtesse? This is indeed a pleasure!” she 
exclaimed effusively. “Why, it is more like years than 
months since last I had the pleasure of seeing Madame la 
Comtesse !” 

“Yes, my good Jeanne,” said the Countess graciously. 
“It is indeed a long time since we met. But the Count went 


The Lonely House 


121 


to your sister’s hotel only yesterday, and was able, I am glad 
to say, to do one of her clients a little service. I am bring- 
ing you to-day a good new customer! We want two or 
three pretty dresses, and we want them at once. As you see. 
Mademoiselle is in half-mourning, so we must only choose 
white and grey gowns, for mauve is not a young girl’s 
colour.” 

“I can make Mademoiselle something very pretty,” be- 
gan the woman, but the Countess cut her short : '‘We want 
to-day a simple, yet smart, coat and skirt, an afternoon 
Casino and restaurant gown, and a simple, girlish evening 
dress. We want to take them away now, this morning.” 

Mme. Jeanne looked a little uncomfortable, and also a 
little surprised. 

“Everything is very dear ” she began, hesitatingly, 

“though of course I should always make a very special price 
for Madame la Comtesse.” 

“I count on that, my good Jeanne, for Mademoiselle will 
pay ready money.” 

The woman’s face cleared as if by magic. “If I have not 
got exactly what Mademoiselle requires, I can borrow some- 
thing from one or two of my rivals,” she said smiling. 

The two ladies were shown into an inner room panelled 
with looking-glass. There they waited for a very few min- 
utes — though the Countess was fidgety, and kept saying that 
she thought Jeanne might hurry herself a little more — 
before two neatly-dressed girls with beautifully-done hair, 
brought in, the one a selection of delightful-looking pale- 
grey and cream coats and skirts, and the other an armful of 
filmy white blouses. 

Lily tried on all the coats and skirts, but the second one 
she had put on obviously suited her the best. It was of a deli- 
cate, pale brownish-grey tint, and though it was very simply 
made, she was at once agreeably aware, as she gazed this 
way and that, seeing reflections of herself wherever she 
turned, that she had never looked so well-dressed in her life 
as she looked in this little coat and skirt. 


122 The Lonely House 

As for the blouses to be worn with the frock, they were 
all so pretty that she could not make up her mind between 
them, and she ended by choosing five. 

Before she took off the coat and skirt, Mme. Jeanne 
suddenly exclaimed: “Surely Mademoiselle will want a hat 
to match the costume?” And before Lily could answer a 
delightful little grey toque, trimmed with Mercury wings, 
was produced. 

The selection of a muslin gown and of a silk coatee to 
wear with it was a very quick affair. In spite of the Coun- 
tess’s objection to mauve, Mme. Jeanne persuaded her that 
Mademoiselle would look well in deep violet. The collar 
and cuffs of the coatee were of dark fur, and the same note 
of colour was repeated in a tiny round purple hat trimmed 
with some pompoms of fur which Lily felt she must cer- 
tainly buy too ! 

Then came the important question of the evening dress. 
Over that business the two ladies spent a long time. Gown 
after gown was rejected by the Countess as too elaborate, 
and not young enough for her niece, and at last Lily felt 
quite tired out of standing like a doll to be dressed, 
redressed and undressed. 

Mme. Jeanne, on her side, began to wonder if she would 
ever please her difficult client, the Countess Polda, when 
suddenly a simple pale grey chiffon gown was produced and 
slipped over Lily’s head. It was what is called in England 
a picture dress. It belonged, that is, to no special time or 
fashion, and it was extremely becoming to the wearer’s deli- 
cate, brilliant complexion, and beautiful fair hair. 

“Even if Mademoiselle is in mourning, could she not 
wear with this gown a turquoise-blue velvet belt ?” Without 
waiting for an answer, Mme. Jeanne fetched a bit of tur- 
quoise ribbon and put it around the girl’s slender, rounded 
waist. The effect was enchanting ! 

But the sight of the velvet ribbon made Lily feel guilty. 
Though she often felt now as if she were living in another 
world, she did not forget The Nest at Epsom, and Aunt 


The Lonely House 


123 


Emmeline’s long, loving kindness to hep. She grew very 
red, and said quickly : “I would rather have a black 
belt.” 

“No, no, not black!” exclaimed Mme. Jeanne decidedly, 
“but grey if you like, to tone in with the gown. Mademoi- 
selle. That will be quite pretty. And here is something else 
— a real bargain this time!” As she spoke she went to a 
cupboard and took out a black and white striped evening 
cloak. It was a very attractive garment, though perhaps a 
little old for a girl. 

“This was ordered by a war widow; but between order- 
ing this cloak and its completion, which was only three days, 
the lady became engaged! So she made up her mind she 
need not wear mourning for her departed hero any more. 
Only three hundred francs?” 

She threw it over Lily’s shoulders, and the girl realised 
that it gave a touch of elegant finish to her appearance. 

“The cloak goes so well with this dress,” went on Ma- 
dame Jeanne, “because it, also, was copied from an old pic- 
ture — 2L picture which hangs in the Palace of Monaco. If I 
may venture to advise Mademoiselle, I should have this 
beautiful cloak repeated when Mademoiselle goes back to 
colours. It would look exquisite in pale lemon yellow and 
turquoise blue.” 

And as Lily was still hesitating, Mme. Jeanne exclaimed: 
“Oh, but I forgot — there is a bag that goes with the cloak. 
That alone was to have been a hundred francs, but I shall 
give it to Mademoiselle — it shall be thrown in !” 

She pulled out a drawer, and took from it a quaint little 
silk bag. The clasp was of light tortoiseshell, and it really 
was a charming little object. 

“Thank you so much, Jeanne ! I knew I could count both 
on your kindness and on your beautiful taste,” said the 
Countess very cordially. “And now,” she turned to Lily, 
“we must go off to the bank and get the money for Mme. 
Jeanne! Make out the bill Jeanne, and remember that we 
are paying cash!” 


124 The Lonely House 

Madame retired into an inner room for a few minutes, 
then came back and handed the account to the Countess. 

“I hope Madame la Comtesse will consider that I have 
been more than reasonable,’^ she said a little nervously. 

The Countess frowned as she loked over the bill. Then 
she sighed. “Yes, my good Jeanne, I suppose that these 
monstrous prices are being given nowadays ! But still, three 
hundred and fifty francs for a muslin gown — and two hun- 
dred for the silk coatee! The sort of gown which as a 
young girl I should have had for a hundred francs — or less, 
indeed, had it been made at home! And the. hats? Jeanne, 
Jeanne — the hats are surely very costly for a young 
girl?” 

Madame looked over the bill as if she had forgotten what 
she had put down for the hats; then she observed with a 
virtuous air : “I will take ten francs off each of the hats to 
please Madame la Comtesse.” 

All this time Lily stood by, not being consulted, not even 
knowing the amount which she was going to pay. The only 
time she herself had interfered had been in connection with 
the grey gown. The Countess had seemed to think that the 
price of the very simple chiffon frock — ^five hundred francs 
— was really too much. But Lily had suddenly felt she 
must have this dress ! It was the prettiest evening gown, so 
she told herself secretly, that she had ever had the chance 
of wearing, and she did not want to lose it. 

“Get everything packed as quickly as possible,” exclaimed 
the Countess, “for the Count and I have a great deal to do 
before the arrival of Count Beppo.” 

“Is Count Beppo coming to Monte Carlo?” exclaimed 
Madame Jeanne, evidently much interested by this little 
item of news. 

“Yes,” said the Countess. “He was not coming till the 
spring, but now, to my great joy and satisfaction, he has 
been able to leave Rome, and we hope he will be with us for 
some time.” 

“And is Mademoiselle also staying at La Solitude?” 


The Lonely House [125 

asked the woman. There was a touch of eager, but kindly, 
inquisitiveness in her voice. 

'‘Yes, my good Jeanne,’' said the Countess. “We hope to 
keep my niece all the winter.” 

“I hope it will not be long before I see Madame la Com- 
tesse again,” said the woman. 

“As you know, I cannot walk uphill, and carriages are 

now so expensive ” the Countess sighed. “But still, 

while my son is here I hope to come down to the town now 
and again, and I will certainly look in.” 

She went out of the shop, followed by Lily. “Now, my 
dear, we must go to the bank, come back here, and then re- 
turn as quickly as possible to La Solitude. You will not 
mind lunching by yourself ? Uncle Angelo and I have sev- 
eral things to do in view of our beloved Beppo’s visit — and 
his train arrives at two o’clock.” 

Not for the first time the girl was struck by Aunt Cosy’s 
air of fierce determination. She looked, in spite of her weak 
heart, energy personified. 

But, determined as was the Countess Polda, there was a 
strain of obstinacy in Lily Fairfield, too, as the older lady 
sometimes found to her cost. 

When they got back to La Solitude, before the Count and 
Countess started for Monte Carlo, quite a passage of arms 
took place between them. The Countess was not satisfied 
with the simple frock in which Lily had come down that 
morning, and, to please her, Lily changed into a white serge 
skirt and put on one of her new blouses. But, even so, the 
Countess was still dissatisfied. 

Then it was that Lily made a stand. “No, Aunt Cosy, 
I really can’t put on one of the smart dresses we bought 
this morning — I should feel so queer and uncom- 
fortable !” 

Aunt Cosy had given in, but there came a gleam of anger 
in her bright blue eyes. “I asked you to do so in your own 
interest,” she said coldly. “Beppo is very observant. He is 
an expert as to ladies’ dress. I have heard him make very 


126 The Lonely House 

scathing remarks about the clothes worn by certain pretty 
ladies!” 

A very scathing reply trembled on Lily’s lips — but she 
forced it back; and, at last, to her secret relief, she saw the 
Count and Countess disappear .together on their way down 
to the town. What a singular young man Beppo Polda must 
be ! Lily made up her mind that she was not going to like 
him. 


fCHAPTER XIII 


L ily got up from her simple luncheon with the agree- 
able knowledge that she was free to do exactly what 
she liked for the next three hours. 

Aunt Cosy had a way of continually asking her what she 
was going to do next, which was ajnnoying to a girl who had 
always planned out her day very much as she thought best. 
Now she remembered that Uncle Tom had ordered a number 
of picture papers to be sent out from England each week, and 
that the first big batch had arrived this morning. 

Gathering the heavy, rolled-up parcels together, she went 
out of doors, and sat down in one of the comfortable wicker 
chairs which had been her first gift to the Count and 
Countess. 

How still, how beautiful, how exquisitely peaceful was 
the scene round, above, and below, the terrace of La Soli- 
tude! No wonder she was beginning to feel marvellously 
better. . . . 

She had been reading for rather over an hour when there 
broke across the intense, brooding quietude of the early 
afternoon the hoot of a motor. She glanced at her wrist 
watch. It was only one o’clock — Beppo’s train would not 
be in for a long time. But Captain Stuart had said some- 
thing — when they had bidden each other good-bye yesterday 
— about their meeting again to-day. Perhaps he had come 
up to make some suggestion about tennis or golf? If so, 
how fortunate it was that Aunt Cosy was out! 

Lily stood up and stepped down on to the lawn, quite 
unconscious of the eager, welcoming, happy look on her face. 

All at once there emerged from the path leading up 
through the orange grove a tall, dark young man, wearing 
white flannels and a straw hat. For a moment she felt a 

127 


128 


The Lonely House 

shock of deep disappointment, for it was not Captain Stuart 
— a moment later she told herself that it was, it must be, 
Beppo Polda! 

Lily Fairfield made a delightful picture as she stood on the 
grass below the terrace, a delicate yet vivid colour coming 
and going in her cheeks, her lovely, fair hair uncovered, for 
she had not troubled to put on a hat. Thus, even apart from 
a very special reason he had for feeling interested in her — 
and he had such a very special reason — Count Beppo Polda 
felt extremely attracted to the pretty stranger. 

He took off his smart straw hat with a graceful gesture, 
and, speaking in remarkably good English, though with a 
strong foreign accent, he exclaimed: “Have I the honour 
to greet Miss Fairfield?” 

He held out his hand and fixed on her a pair of brilliant 
penetrating eyes. 

As he came close up to her, Lily felt a most curious sensa- 
tion creep over her, a mingling — if it be not a contradiction 
in terms — of attraction and repulsion. Of attraction, be- 
cause, though she was not the kind of girl to set much store 
by looks. Count Beppo was so extraordinarily handsome: 
of repulsion, because he was so very like his mother! Lily 
though hardly conscious that it was so, was beginning 
strongly to dislike, as well as fear, the woman whom she 
called “Aunt Cosy,” and that, though she often tried to feel 
grateful for the Countess’s undoubted, if often fussy, kind- 
ness to her. 

Count Beppo had all his mother’s good points; her tall, 
upright figure, her clear-cut features, and her one-time thick, 
curling hair. From his plain, short father, he had inherited 
that indefinable look of race which generally, though not 
always by any means, implies in its possessor a long pedigree. 
He also possessed what is, in most countries a rare gift — < 
that is, a most beautiful speaking voice. Just now he was 
in the pink of physical condition, very unlike the still war- 
weary young Frenchmen Lily sometimes saw walking about 
Monte Carlo, or playing on the wind-swept golf course. 


The Lonely House 


129 


Taking the hand the girl held out to him, the young man 
respectfully lifted it to his lips. Now this was the first 
time Lily’s hand had ever been kissed by a man, and she 
thought it a pretty, if rather a singular, custom. 

They stood talking together for a few moments while 
Count Beppo explained in his full, caressing voice how he 
had always longed to meet Miss Fairfield, ever since his 
mother had told him of her many delightful qualities, when 
he was still a boy, years ago, after the Countess had paid her 
memorable visit to England ! 

Lily felt just a little embarrassed, as well as rather 
thrilled. She had never met anyone in the least like this 
young man before ! Then she bethought herself of the Count 
and Countess. And how about Count Beppo ’s luggage? 
He had nothing in his hand but a Malacca cane set with 
one large, pale-green turquoise. Held by a young English- 
man, the cane would have looked foppish, and a trifle absurd : 
but, somehow, it seemed in perfect harmony with the rest 
of Count Beppo’s smart, rather dandified appearance. 

‘‘And now,” he said at last, “I suppose I must go in and 
greet my papa and mamma — or are they having a siesta? 
If yes, perhaps I may linger in Capua yet a little longer,” 
and he smiled down, very delightfully, into Lily’s pretty 
face. 

“Didn’t they meet you?” she exclaimed. “They were 
expecting you by the two o’clock train !” 

Her companion laughed. ‘T gave them what you ini 
England call ‘the slip’! I arrived at Monte yesterday!” 

“Yesterday?” Lily was much surprised. 

“I have put up at the Hidalgo Hotel,” he went on. “It 
is very select and comfortable.” 

Lily remembered the hours she and Cristina had spent 
in making what was evidently the real spare room of La 
Solitude pleasant and habitable from the point of view of a 
highly civilised young man. Also, it must be confessed that 
she felt a little disappointed. Life at La Solitude was some- 
times very dull! 


1130 


The Lonely House 


“I suppose some letter you wrote was lost in the post. I 
know that your mother thought you were going to stay here.’^ 

Beppo looked at her with a rather funny look, and then 
lowering his voice slightly, he exclaimed: “La Solitude is a 
delightful place — ^but the last time I stayed here I said to 
myself, ‘Never again !’ You see, Tm used to being able to 
take ai hot bath whenever I feel like it ! Then there^s another 
reason. If I stay at La Solitude it becomes a delicate matter 
for me to join the Gub! The rule is absolute with regard 
to land owners in Monaco ; none of them may play either in 
the Casino or at the Club.” 

“You know what mamma is like,” he went on confiden- 
tially. “If I had told her that I was going to an hotel, there 
would have been endless discussions and long letters — for 
my dear mamma is a great letter- writer ! I intended to send 
up a note this morning, but I was having such a splendid 
game of tennis;” he smiled a little self-consciously. “I was 
playing a single with the Spanish champion! So I really 
could not tear myself away !” 

Lily felt suddenly revolted by Beppo’s callous indifference 
to the disappointment he had inflicted on his devoted father 
and mother. 

“I think you ought to go down into the town now,” she 
said firmly, “and try to find them. It’ll be a dreadful blow 
to them if they go to the station and find that you are not 
there.” 

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do — I’ll send down Cristina!” She 
asked herself why the deep caressing voice had such a curi- 
ously attractive lure about it. 

And even as he spoke her name the old waiting woman 
appeared at the open drawing-room window. Joy flashed 
into her face, and a moment later his arms were round her 
neck, and he was kissing her affectionately. 

A few seconds ago Lily had felt as if she hated Beppo for 
his selfishness, and utter lack of consideration for his parents. 
But now she saw that there was, after all, a very kindly side 
to his nature. 


The Lonely House 131 

With one arm still round Cristina’s shoulders, he turned 
to the girl and smiled, not a trace of embarrassment on his 
handsome face. 

‘'Cristina is my second mamma!” he exclaimed. “She 
was my darling, kind nurse — as kind to me as the nurse in 
your Shakespeare’s beautiful tragedy, ‘Romeo and Juliet* 
was to her sweet girl.” 

He turned, and repeated what he had said in Italian, and 
a little colour came into Cristina’s pale, sensitive face. 

“Mademoiselle does not know our language,” she said 
in French, and then she added something in Italian. 

He turned laughingly to Lily. “She tells me that I have 
a rival in her heart? You have made a conquest, Miss Lily! 
Cristina is hard to please where young ladies are concerned.” 

There was no contradiction from Cristina, and he went on, 
shaking his finger at the old woman : “Never shall I forget 
bringing a beautiful lady to call on my mother! She was 
beautiful, but alas? her cheeks were too pink, her lips too 
red, her hair too yellow, to please the holy Cristina. So 
Cristina was very, very cold to the charming creature !” 

Though Cristina knew no English, she evidently guessed 
what he was saying, for she shook her head and again said 
something in Italian. 

“She says that you are nof at all like the naughty ladies 
of to-day — ^that everything about you is real, and that you 
are more like one of the beautiful saints of old. And now, 
— ^turning to Cristina and speaking in French — ^“Miss Lily 
and I wish you to do something for us, dear friend. We 
want you to go down into Monte Carlo and find papa and 
mamma. Just say that I have arrived — you need not say 
an)^hing more. Let them think that I came by one of those 
de luxe trains that arrive in the morning.’* 

To Lily’s surprise Cristina made no objection. “In a few 
moments I will be gone,” she said. ^ . 

As she turned away Beppo called out after her: 
tina? You might go to the Hidalgo Hotel before finding 
my parents. Get the first-floor valet — ^he’s a very decent 


132 The Lonely House 

fellow, an Italian — to give you my dress clothes. I’ll dress 
up here, in the delightful room which mamma has had pre- 
pared for me, and which I am not going to occupy — or at 
any rate not yet! And Cristina? Tell the valet to order 
a motor to come up for me at — ^let me see, you’re early folk, 
aren’t you, and the Club’s open late — well, let’s say half- 
past ten, and then I can spend a pleasant hour at the Club 
before turning in.” 

He took a bundle of notes out of his pocket and put them 
in Cristina’s hand. ‘T’m very poor just now! But you 
must see that we have a good dinner to-night. And buy 
a pretty bouquet for Mademoiselle!” 

Cristina smiled more joyously than Lily had ever seen her 
smile, as she nodded her head wisely. 

When she had gone: *T wish mamma was more like 
Cristina!” he exclaimed, with a funny kind of look. Lily 
could not help smiling. There was certainly something at- 
tractive about Beppo Polda! 

The hour that followed seemed to go by very quickly — 
more quickly than any hour the girl had spent since her 
arrival at Monte Carlo. 

The young Count had plenty to say for himself ; also he 
managed to convey how much he admired her — Lily. At 
once he had claimed relationship. Soon he called her “my 
pretty cousin,” and instructed her to call him “Beppo.” He 
also told her, which amused her, that he and his mother 
always talked English when they were “talking secrets.” 
“We shan’t be able to do that now,” he said, laughing. 

Perhaps one reason why Lily liked Beppo so much was 
that he was such a pleasant surprise ! Somehow, while look- 
ing forward to seeing him, she had felt sure he would be a 
disagreeable, supercilious young man. She was astonished 
to find how quickly she felt. at ease with him. More than 
once during that first hour of their acquaintance the thought 
of Angus Stuart flashed into her mind. How would those 
two get on, she wondered — perhaps not so badly, after all? 

Beppo, in spite of his appearance, was more like a child 


The Lonely House 133 

than a man, so Lily decided within herself. He had a 
happy child’s self-confidence and belief that everyone was 
going to be kind to him. But he was like a spoilt child; 
though that, she decided, was his mother’s fault. 

Just as she was thinking this, they heard the sound of 
wheels on the little clearing below. Lily got up from her 
wicker chair and, to her surprise, Beppo took her hand as 
if to help her, and then kept her hand within his and looked 
down ardently into her eyes. With a sensation of surprise, 
she told herself that he was not a child at all, but a very 
determined man ! There was a look on his face which made 
her feel suddenly uncomfortable. 

She freed her hand from his rather quickly, and he said : 
'‘Forgive me! But I cannot help remembering that we shall 
not be alone together again for a long time. Do you realise, 
Cousin Lily, that we have been alone — quite alone — up here, 
in this lonely place, for sixty full minutes?” 

"Of course I do,” she answered, blushing a little. “But I 
never thought about it.” 

"I remembered it,” he exclaimed, “every minute of the 
time ! And I couldn’t help being sorry we were not greater 
friends than we are — yet.” 

He said those words in a low, meaning tone, and somehow 
that little interchange of words spoilt the girl’s pleasant 
feeling of being at ease in his company. Why had he said 
that ? She hoped he was not going to try to flirt with her ! 
Lily would have been very much surprised, and even indig- 
nant, had someone told her that Count Beppo Polda had 
been doing nothing else since they had first met one another 
an hour ago. 

Even so, she felt just a little nervous as she saw the three 
figures emerging slowly from the orange grove; but the 
Countess said not a word as to her son’s having disappointed 
her with regard to the time of his arrival ; and she pretended 
to think it quite natural that he should be staying at an 
hotel. With regard to that, however, Beppo had the grace 
to say a few apologetic words, explaining, what he had not 


134 The Lonely House 

told Lily, that some friends of his were staying at the 
Hidalgo, and that he had promised long ago that when these 
people came to Monte Carlo he would be one of their party. 

Lily made more than one effort on that afternoon to leave 
Beppo alone with his parents. Surely they must have things 
to say to one another, after their long separation ? But both 
the young man and his mother seemed determined that she 
should stay with them all the time. 

At last she went up to dress for dinner, and she had put on 
the pretty muslin dress Aunt Cosy so much admired, and 
had wished her to put on that morning — when, opening the 
door of her room, she suddenly heard Beppo’s voice coming 
from below. 

He was speaking, very sternly and decidedly, in English. 

“A promise is a promise, mamma! I absolutely counted 
on that money. I had hoped to stay with you till the New 
Year. As it is, I must go back to Rome in a very few days.” 

Lily heard Ihe murmured answer: ‘‘If you should receive 
the money within, say, a week, could you then stay on?” 

“Certainly I could.” 

And then some ohe^probably the Countess — walked 
quickly across to the door of the small sitting-room at the 
bottom of the staircase, and shut the door. Lily felt sorry 
she had heard so much, or so little. 

Now, for the first time, it did strike her as very strange 
that Beppo should look so well-to-do, so entirely the idle 
man of fashion, while she knew the money his parents 
received from her as their paying guest meant so much to 
them. Once or twice the Countess had spoken to her as 
though Beppo was concerned with big business affairs; but 
if that were so, how could the small amount of money his 
mother might, or might not, send him, make the slightest 
difference to his movements? 

On going downstairs, Lily went into the kitchen to see if 
she could help Cristina. The old woman was standing there, 
a smile on her face. She looked extraordinarily happy. She 
took hold of the girl’s hand. 


The Lonely House ^ 

‘‘How do you like our Beppo?” she said eagerly. “He is 
so kind, so generous, and so very, very handsome — do you 
not think so?” 

Lily laughed. “Yes, I think he is very handsome,” she 
said frankly. “And very like his mother.” 

“No, no !” Cristina frowned. “He is like his grandfather, 
the Count’s father. He was a beautiful man, and a friend 
of the first King of Italy.” 

Beppo’s coming had quite changed Cristina: she looked 
much more alive, and talked in an eager, decided way. 

“Can I help you at all?” asked Lily. 

“Everything is ready! I did not use any of the child’s 
money. I gave it him all back. The Count and Countess 
had already bought everything. We shall have a feast to- 
night !” 

“I’m sorry he’s not staying here,” said Lily slowly. 

Cristina gave her a curious look. ''You ask him to come !” 
she exclaimed. She evidently thought that Lily was sorry 
for her own sake. As a matter of fact, Lily was now only 
sorry for Aunt Cosy’s sake. 

“I think,” she said quietly, “that Count Beppo ought to 
have arranged to stay here, as his parents wished him to do.” 

But Cristina shook her head decidedly. “No, no,” she 
answered, “he would not be happy here. He likes what we 
call ‘the English comfort,’ my little lady.” 


CHAPTER XIV, 


B ut next day all was radiant happiness and good 
humour — indeed, the whole atmosphere of the 
Lonely House seemed transformed. Even Mimi looked as 
if it knew of Beppo’s arrival, for the cat walked about purr- 
ing, and for once left the birds alone. 

The night before, during dinner, Beppo had overcome his 
mother’s dislike to leaving La Solitude. 

'T won’t ask you to come often,” he said coaxingly. 
‘‘But to-morrow we’ll just have a nice little luncheon — you, 
and papa, and our charming English cousin! The Pesco- 
baldis are going out to lunch.” 

As Beppo uttered the long, peculiar Italian name the 
Countess frowned for the first time since her son’s arrival 
“Have they come with you?” she exclaimed, in a surprised, 
annoyed tone. “You did not say that they were the friends 
who are staying with you at the Hidalgo Hotel !” 

“Surely I did, mamma?” said the young man uncomfort- 
ably. “That is the reason why I am at the Hidalgo instead 
of here.” 

There was a pause, and then Aunt Cosy turned to Lily. 
“It will interest you to meet the Marchesa Pescobaldi,” 
she observed. “She is a very charming and clever woman. It 
would, perhaps, be unkind to add that the Marchesa has 
the unfortunate reputation of possessing the evil eye.” 

Now it was Beppo’s turn to frown, and a very angry 
look came over his good-looking face and brilliant, piercing 
blue eyes. 

“It is very wrong of you to say that to Lily!” he ex- 
claimed. “You must understand” — ^he turned rather quickly 
to the girl — “that in Italy any person is said to have the 
evil eye who even for a moment is disliked by the speaker. 

136 


The Lonely House '[137 

It is a malicious thing to say ! Let us be frank, as you say 
in England. Mamma does not like my friend; therefore 
she attributes to her the evil eye — ^that is all 

Poor Lily felt desperately uncomfortable, so she wisely 
said nothing. As for the Countess, she burst out into some- 
with bitter laughter. 

‘‘Beppo does right to defend the Marchesa,” she said sar- 
castically, "‘for the lady’s husband is his greatest friend.” 

“Cosy, Cosy!” interposed Count Polda, “you forget that 
the Pescobaldis are connections of ours.” 

By eleven o’clock they were all three ready, Lily wearing 
her new coat and skirt and becoming little hat. The Count- 
ess called Cristina to see how pretty the girl looked, and 
Lily could not help feeling grateful and touched. What a 
queer mixture Aunt Cosy was! A mixture of generosity 
and meanness, of good humour and frightful temper, ofi 
kindliness and spitefulness. 

When Beppo arrived they were taken by surprise, for, 
according to his mother, he was most unpunctual. 

“Come quick !’^. he called out. “The Pescobaldis are 
waiting for us in the car. We shall all drive together to 
Eze, where they are going to lunch with some friends who' 
have a villa there, and then we four will go for a delightful 
little drive, and end up at the restaurant of the Hotel de 
Paris.” 

It was a perfect day. The sun was shining, the air was 
full of an exquisite limpidity, and Lily, as she walked out of 
the drawing-room and joined Beppo on the lawn, feeling 
perhaps a little self-conscious in her new coat and skirt and 
smart hat, told herself that “all this” was great fun! 

She could not but be aware that Beppo was looking at 
her with a bolder, franker admiration in his eyes than any 
Englishman or even Frenchman would have done. 

They hurried down through the orange grove, to see on 
the clearing, which always recalled to the girl the dreadful 
morning when she had found George Ponting’s body, a 


138 The Lonely House 

large open touring-car, in which were seated a lady and a 
gentleman. 

As they emerged from the wood, the lady stood up — and 
Lily gazed at the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. 

The Marchesa Pescobaldi was tall and slender, her face 
was a perfect oval, and her complexion had a delicate, 
camelia-like bloom, while her slivery grey hair was abun- 
dant, and beautifully dressed. 

She looked neither old nor young. Her glorious beauty 
might almost have been described as of an ageless type. 
As for her grey hair, it set off her flawless complexion, 
and intensified the dark fire of her large eyes. She made 
Lily feel curiously young and unimportant. 

As the Count and Countess appeared she called out the 
English word “Welcome !’’ and then she threw a long, in- 
tense, critical glance at Lily Fairfield. 

The English girl made a very dainty and delightful 
picture aginst the dark-green, glossy leaves, and the Mar- 
chesa Pescobaldi noticed that she walked with a graceful, 
assured carriage. For a long flashing moment Lily’s hazel 
eyes and the full, dark, brilliant orbs of the older woman 
crossed like swords, and Lily felt a queer thrill go through 
her as she remembered what Aunt Cosy had said. Had the 
Marchesa really the evil eye. 

Lily looked shyly at the man who was evidently the owner 
of the car. The Marchese Pescobaldi was very thin and 
very yellow — much, indeed, Lily’s idea of what an Italian 
nobleman would look like. He seemed in /a great hurry to 
be off, and they all settled down into the car very quickly, 
the three ladies behind, the three men in front. The Mar- 
chesa sat between the Countess and Lily, and soon they were 
whirling on, sometimes zig-zagging along rather rough 
roads, Beppo driving with great skill and judgment. 

Lily sat well back, enjoying the drive, while her two 
companions talked together, speaking very quickly in 
French. Now and again she caught a word or two of what 
they were saying in the rushing wind. 


The Lonely House 139 

But she was not thinking of the Countess Polda and of 
the Italian lady who now sat next to her. She was wonder- 
ing, with a touch of discomfort how she could manage, now 
that Beppo was here, to communicate with M. Popeau and 
Captain Stuart. Somehow she felt that it would not be as 
easy as it had been hitherto. Perhaps she might write M. 
Popeau a little note, saying how very grateful she was for 
all his kindness over the sad business in which they had 
been so curiousely associated, and explaining that, owing to 
Count Beppo’s arrival, she was likely to be a good deal 
engaged the next few days. 

Suddenly they came to a yellow marshy piece of ground, 
and the motor sank in the quaking mud. Beppo stopped 
the motor dead for a few moments. Then it was that Lily 
heard the following little snatch of conversation between 
the two who were sitting next to her. 

‘‘All I ask is, are you really satisfied about the only thing 
that matters — ^the money?'' asked the Marchesa in French 
“Can you swear this on the head of the person in whom we 
both take an interest? If yes, then instead of hindering 
you, I shall try in every way to further the afifair." 

The question, or series of questions, were uttered in a 
low and quick but very clear voice. 

There was a pause, and then came the answer, uttered 
solemnly, “I swear to you that the money is assured, 
Livia.'’ 

It was Ihe first time Lily Fairfield had ever heard the 
woman she called Aunt Cosy give a short, direct reply to 
any question, but it was not the first time by any means 
that she had been as if compelled to note the extraordinary 
importance foreigners seemed to attach to the possession 
of money! Lily could never get accustomed to this peculi- 
arity in either Aunt Cosy or Uncle Angelo. And how this 
haughty and evidently very rich Italian lady was talking in 
just the same way — as if money was the only thing that 
mattered in life. 

The motor started off again, and after a few more 


140 The Lonely House 

minutes’ delicious rush through the scented air it drew up 
before the gates of a large villa. 

Everyone stood up: the Countess Polda, indeed, stepped 
out of the car in order that the Marchesa might get down 
more comfortably. 

And then once more Lily told herself that she had never 
•seen such a beautiful woman as was this Marchesa Pesco- 
baldi! She was dressed in a severely simple black cloth 
coat and skirt, but that only emphasised the graceful, supple 
lines of her tall figure. There was also a wonderful look of 
health and of power about her whole appearance. Yet she 
did not look happy, or at ease. She looked bored and cross, 
and while she waited for the two men she tapped her 
arched right foot ^impatiently. 

Beppo Polda accompanied his friends a few yards up the 
path which led to the villa, and Lily, as she gazed at the 
group, could not help thinking what a fine, strong young 
man he looked compared with his thin, dried-up-looking 
Italian friend. 

At last he stayed his steps, aifd, turning, said something 
to the Marchesa. She held out her hand, and he lifted it 
up to his lips„.and respectfully kissed it. 

Then he hurried back to the car. 

Waiting till the Pescobaldis were well out of earshot: 
“Now, Lily,” he cried out gaily, “come and sit by me, pretty 
cousin! I’m going to take you all just a little round before 
;We go to the Hotel de Paris for luncheon. Papa, do you 
mind sitting by mamma ?” 

The Count got into the back of the car by his wife, and 
Lily took the place in front. Somehow she now felt ex- 
hilarated and pleasantly at ease. The Marchesa’s person- 
ality had affected her disagreeably. 

As they drove along, Beppo talked to her with eager 
animation, telling her all sorts of curious, interesting, and 
yet, amusing things, about the places they passed. She 
learnt more from him in half an hour about this quaint 
and beautiful part of the Riviera than she had learnt from 


I ^ The Lonely House 1141 

his father and mother all the time she had been at La 
Solitude. 

At last they turned round, and swept down into Monte 
Carlo. “The Marchesa’s chauffeur will take over the car 
and then come back for us in an hour,” said Beppo. 

“Have you ordered luncheon?” his mother inquired. 

“Mamma! Of course IVe ordered a very nice luncheon, 
including the lobster d la sauce verte of which you are so 
fond! Neither have I forgotten papa's spaghetti. But 
as something tells me that cousin Lily and I have the same 
tastes, we are going to share a delicious sole d la Monte 
Carlor 

When the little party walked through into what has be- 
come one of the most famous restaurants in the world, it 
was clear that Count Beppo Polda enjoyed there a high 
reputation as host. The head waiter himself marshalled 
them to a light, well-placed table, where they could see 
everything without being themselves overlooked or overheard. 

There were comparatively few people lunching, for 
Monte Carlo, like the rest of the Continent, gets later and 
later each year as to its hours and habits. But all at once 
Lily's heart gave a leap, for she saw some way off, seated 
at a little table for two, the man whom she by now always 
affectionately called in her own mind “Papa Popeau.” He 
was with a stranger, and she felt just a little disappointed. 

Yet Lily was not particularly anxious that Count Beppo 
and Captain Stuart should meet. They were so very differ- 
ent — something seemed to tell her that they would not get 
on together, and, after all, Beppo's visit to Monte Carlo 
was to be only for a few days. 

Little by little the great room began to fill, and the 
Countess was soon making shrewd and not over-kindly 
remarks about some of the people coming in. 

Lily was amused to notice how interested Aunt Cosy was 
in everybody — (their’ appearance, their jewels, their clothes, 
their manners ! She was evidently much enjoying her little 
outing, and Beppo's knowledge of her taste was well shown 


142 The Lonely House 

by the eager satisfaction with which she ate the lobster 
he had thoughtfully ordered for her. 

But though the ‘Countess ate heartily, she also talked a 
great deal — indeed, most of the conversation was carried 
on by her and by her son. 

Count Polda remained quite silent, though his observant 
eyes often became closely fixed on some individual who in 
Lily’s eyes looked particularly uninteresting, for almost 
always the person in question was a man. Once he stared 
with a strange intentness at a rather curious-looking indi- 
vidual. 

“Look,” he exclaimed, and it was the first time he had 
broken silence — ^“Look, Cosy! There is the great Chicago 
Sausage King! He is one of the richest men in the 
world!” 

Aunt Cosy glanced sharply at the individual in question. 
Then she looked away, and began talking of something 
else. 

As for Lily, she was now feeling quite gay and quite 
cheerful. Her share of the luncheon was proving delicious, 
and the brilliance and lightsome charm of the scene about 
her delighted all her senses. Also, she could not help feeling 
just a little happier for the proximity of good Papa Popeau. 
Now and again she would find his eyes fixed on their little 
party, always with a benevolent, inquiring, kindly, inter- 
ested glance. She hoped, with all her heart, that he would 
come up and speak to them. 

At last they reached the coffee stage of their dejeuner 
and at the same moment the man who had been Hercules 
Popeau’s guest got up and, shaking hands with his host, left 
the restaurant. M. Popeau signed his bill, and then he 
threaded his way slowly between the now very crowded 
tables to where Count Beppo’s party were seated. 

The Countess greeted him effusively. “Let me present 
my son to you,” she cried. “Beppo! This is a gentleman 
who wasv, remarkably kind to Lily on her long and dis- 
agreeable journey from Paris.” 


The Lonely House 143 

Count Polda and Count Beppo, who had both risen 
courteously from their seats, exclaimed almost together: 
‘‘Do have your coffee with us — or have you already 
had it?’^ 

“I have had my coffee,” said M. Popeau amiably. “But 
I will, with your permission, sit down for a few minutes. 
It is a pleasure to see Miss Fairfield again. We met last 
under such very different circumstances!” 

Lily saw a look of apprehension and unease come over 
both the Count and Countess’s faces, and she thought it a 
little tactless of her French friend to remind them all at 
such a pleasant moment as this of poor George Ponting 
and his piteous fate. 

All? No, of course, Beppo knew nothing about "that 
tragic Ponting affair. 

“I suppose Mademoiselle is the first lady who has ever 
stayed for as long as a fortnight at Monte Carlo without 
going into the Casino,” said M. Popeau, smiling. 

“Have you never been to the Rooms?” exclaimed Beppo. 
He seemed quite shocked. “What a pity it is that I can- 
not take you in there this afternoon. But, alas! I have 
to go back to Eze. I promised my friends that I would do 
so.” 

“I can go to the Casino any time,” said Lily, laughing. 
“There’s no hurry at all — ^though, of course, I should be 
sorry to leave Monte Carlo without having seen an3d;hing 
of the famous gambling-rooms.” 

“I was going to propose,” said M. Popeau, quietly, “that 
/ escort Mademoiselle to the Casino this afternoon. I know 
that the Count and Countess, being residents, cannot have 
the privilege.” 

Lily looked eagerly at Aunt Cosy, and, to her secret as- 
tonishment, the later nodded quite amiably. M. Popeau 
offered Count Polda a cigar, and then Beppo took some- 
thing out of his pocket and held it out, smiling, to Lily. 
“Even a baby,” he said, “could smoke one of these cigar- 
ettes !” 


144 The Lonely House 

Lily bent forward eagerly, and then her face changed 
utterly, and, with a gasp of amazement, she uttered a low, 
involuntary “Oh!” 

Yes, she could not be mistaken. What lay on the white 
tablecloth before her was surely the exquisitely-chased little 
gold box which she had last seen held out to her by George 
Ponting ? 

She bent down, lower and lower, regardless of the people 
about her. Yes, there was now no doubt at all, for inside 
the pale gold lid were engraved the words: “Mon coeur a 
toi. Ma vie au Roi.” 

But so little do those about us realise of what we are 
thinking that only Hercules Popeau noticed the girl’s agita- 
tion. As for Beppo, he laughed and said: “Yes, these are 
what would be called in England midget cigarettes, are 
they not?” 

It was clear that he had taken Lily’s exclamation of 
surprise as an involuntary tribute to the daintiness of the 
quaint little cigarettes which filled the one-time snuff-box. 
Lily was too surprised and disturbed to speak : the sight of 
the gold box had brought with it a rush of painful, dis- 
tressing memories. 

Hercules Popeau leant forward. 

“You have there, my dear Count, a most delightful and 
valuable cigarette-case,” he observed suavely. “If I mistake 
not, it is an exquisite specimen of late eighteenth-century 
work. I remember once seeing a curio extremely like this 
in a collection of pathetic little objects which had be- 
longed to Mme. du Barri. The snuff-box in question had 
been given to her by King Louis the Fifteenth. May I look 
at it for a moment?” 

“Of course!” said Count Beppo courteously. 

He pushed the box across the table, and M. Popeau took 
it up and examined it closely. 

“I see,” he said at last, “that it is not as I first thought! 
This box is of rather later workmanship than I supposed. 
It was probably made during the Revolution. Is it not 


The Lonely House 145 

strange to think that these costly and exquisite objects 
were being fashioned even at such a time as that?” 

He was obviously talking to give Lily time to recover her 
composure. 

And then the (JTountess broke in : '‘My son is very clever 
at picking up pretty things,” she said, smiling. “He bought 
that little box at an old curiosity shop for a mere song — not 
that one gets very much nowadays anywhere for a mere 
song! Is it not true,” she said, turning to Beppo, “that 
the man who sold it to you said it was but silver gilt?” 

Beppo looked surprised. “If I told you so, it is so, mamma. 
I cannot remember,” he replied. 

“I congratulate the Count on his find,” said M. Popeau 
gravely. “I should like him to tell me in what shop in Monte 
Carlo he found such a great bargain?” 

The Countess answered for Beppo. “My son did not 
buy the box in Monte Carlo,” she said quickly. “He got 
it — was it at Milan, Beppo? — last time he was on his way 
to Monte Carlo.” 

Lily felt bewildered but relieved. She had made a mis- 
take, and so obviously also had Papa Popeau. She felt sure 
that, like herself, he had at first supposed this little gold box 
to have been the one belonging to the unfortunate Ponting. 
If Beppo had bought what was now a cigarette-case in Milan 
some time ago, its being exactly like Mr. Ponting’s gold 
box was simply an amazing coincidence. 

“While we are talking about the box we are forgetting 
the cigarettes,” said Beppo. “Do allow me to tempt you, 
Cousin Lily!” 

And Lily laughingly consented to be tempted. They were 
very mild little cigarettes, far milder than those which she 
had occasionally smoked with Uncle Tom — ^to Aunt Em- 
meline’s disapproval. 

At last they all got up and began walking out of the 
restaurant, Beppo leaving what seemed to Lily an enormous 
tip on the table. He explained, smiling, that he had a bill, 
and so only paid once a week. 


146 The Lonely House 

^‘That,” said M. Popeau civilly, “shows, le Comte, that 
your reputation must indeed be high, for they have to be 
very careful here, even with quite well-known people. With- 
out being in the least dishonest, it is so easy to find oneself 
cleared out at the tables, and then to forget all about such 
an account as that of a restaurant.” 

“They all know that my fathet is a native of Monaco,” 
said the young* man, rather shortly. 

When they joined the others, M. Popeau said firmly: 
“I will now take charge of Mademoiselle, and I promise to 
bring her back to La Solitude at — shall I say — half-past four, 
Madame la Comtesse ?” 

“Yes,” said the Countess graciously, “that will do quite 
well. It is very good of you to take my niece to the Rooms. 
I am sure that you, Monsieur, will be quite as effective a 
guardian as I should be myself ! There are often very queer 
people in the gambling-rooms.” 

“There are indeed,” said M. Popeau gravely, and there 
was no twinkle in his eye. Frenchmen of his type are, as 
Captain Stuart had truly said, extremely particular in this 
matter of a young girl’s surroundings and reputation. 

The big car was waiting for Count Beppo, and he put his 
parents into it with great care and affection. “Now, I 
will drive you home,” he exclaimed. Turning, he held out 
his hand to Lily. “I wish you and I could meet later in the 
afternoon, after I have come back from Eze,” he said hesi- 
tatingly. “About what time will you be leaving the Casino ?” 

But M. Popeau intervened. “I don’t think we can make 
any plan of that sort,” he said; “we should only miss one 
another. I will take great care of Miss Fairfield, and bring 
her up to La Solitude in good time.” 


CHAPTER XV 


T he moment Lily found herself alone with M. Popeau, 
forming part of the crowd of walkers who were all 
on their way to the Casino, she exclaimed, a little nervou=^y. 
“Wasn't it an extraordinary coincidence that Beppo Polda 
should have exactly the same gold snuff-box as that which 
poor Mr. Pouting bought from an old woman gambler?" 

“Extraordinary indeed," answered the Frenchman drily. 
“I wish you'd ask him the exact date of his purchase of it. 
Mademoiselle." 

“I will," said Lily. Then something prompted her to 
add, “I hope you like Beppo Polda? I can't quite make 
him out, yet he seems so very much nicer than I expected 
him to be." 

M. Popeau evaded her question. “I agree with you," he 
said ; “he is very much nicer than one would expect the son 
of either his father or his mother to be. Also, Mademoiselle, 
he is extremely, quite exceptionally, handsome." 

He looked down at her thoughtfully. “No man can ever 
tell," he said; “not even the extremely foolish man who 
prides himself on his knowledge of the feminine heart, how 
far good looks influence — or don't influence — a woman when 
she is considering a member of my sex!" 

Lily laughed, and blushed. The problem had never been 
put to her before. 

“I suppose one can't help being rather affected by a human 
being’s outward appearance," she answered; then added, 
with a little smile on her pretty face: “At any rate, men 
are very much influenced by appearance, aren’t they, M. 
Popeau. ?" 

“I’m afraid that can't be denied! But tell me — if you 
don't think the question indiscreet — does a young lady ever 

147 


148 The Lonely House 

look at a good-looking man, and long to know him ? That, 
I need hardly tell you, is what many a man — nay, almost 
every man — does do at times with regard to a beautiful 
woman !” 

“I can’t imagine any nice girl feeling like that about an 
entire stranger,” began Lily hesitatingly. 

“What a wonderful word is that English word ‘nice’!” 
said M. Popeau reflectively. “It may mean such a very 
great deal, or nothing at all. It is — it is ” 

“I know exactly what you mean,” exclaimed Lily. “The 
word ‘nice’ is certainly a camouflage word I” 

“That’s it!” cried M. Popeau, delighted. “You’ve put it 
exactly. Mademoiselle ! But supposing I were to tell you — 
to return to what we were talking about — that there are 
very, very few yiice girls in the world?” 

“I shouldn’t believe you!” cried Lily stoutly. 

“Supposing I were also to tell you,” went on M. Popeau 
gravely, “that a great many women you would probably 
describe as nice do not only pick out a handsome man and 
feel that they would like to know him, but that they go 
further — that sometimes they actually make the first ad- 
vances, and do strike up some kind of acquaintance with 
him? Supposing I were to prove that to you?” 

Lily looked and felt uncomfortable. She did not quite 
know what to say. 

“Take your cousin, Count Beppo Polda,” went on M. 
Popeau meditatively. “I should think that ever since* he 
reached man’s estate he has been — shall we say pursued? — 
by pretty ladies desiring his friendship. Any girl who 
marries Beppo Polda must make up her mind to endure the 
torments of jealousy. I suspect,” said M. Popeau, looking 
down into Lily’s open, flushed, ingenuous, and, yes, exceed- 
ingly pretty face, “that you, Mademoiselle, are among the 
few happy human beings in Monte Carlo who really do not 
know what jealousy is?” 

Lily hesitated. “It’s quite true,” she said slowly; “I 
don’t remember ever feeling jealous — not really jealous!” 


The Lonely House 149 

M. Popeau drew a long breath. “That shows you have 
never been in love,” he said quietly. “But to return to 
Count Beppo. I happen to know that he is acquainted with 
one lady who very often does him the honour of being 
jealous of him.” 

“Poor Beppo!” said Lily. “How horrid for him!” Then 
— for this little bit of gossip interested her very much — “Is 
Beppo in love, M. Popeau?” 

“He has been in love for a very long time,” answered 
her companion gravely. 

Lily felt thrilled, and yes, just a trifle disappointed. 

“Do you mean,” she said, “that Beppo is engaged?” If 
so. Pm sure his parents don’t know it.” 

“Engaged? Oh no”; the Frenchman looked curiously 
surprised. “When I said that Count Beppo Polda is in 
love, I mean the phrase in a general sense. He is in love 
with love ” 

“Oh! Is that all?” Lily felt relieved. 

M. Popeau went on: “The Count, for the moment, is 
what you call in England fancy free. Still, he is now ab- 
sorbed in a very important quest — that of finding for him- 
self a rich wife. Meanwhile he, of course, amuses him- 
self ” he said the words in a very significant tone, and 

Lily blushed a deep, unbecoming blush. She felt a little 
indignant. She realised that M. Popeau thought that Beppo 
would flirt with her, and that she, Lily, would not be able 
to help falling in love with him! 

They walked on in silence. 

Hercules Popeau was a shrewd student of human nature, 
but this simple English girl was to him a real enigma. Was 
she aware, for instance, that Angus Stuart was deeply in 
love with her? And if the answer to this was “yes,” how 
did she, on her side, regard the young soldier? 

He had made it his business during the last few days 
to find out whatever there was to be found out about Count 
Beppo Polda. Among his best secret agents during the war 
had been a Frenchwoman living in Rome. He had got in 


150 The Lonely House 

touch with her yesterday afternoon, and she had at once told 
him the little there was to tell about the young man. Her- 
cules Popeau had been almost disappointed to find that, as 
reputations go, in that curious cosmopolitan world which 
has its social centre in Rome, Count Beppo Polda had by 
no means a bad reputation. In fact, he was popular both 
with men — for he was a good sportsman — and with women. 

But there was a certain mystery as to how he lived. He 
had been brought up as an entirely idle man of pleasure. 
At times he spent money recklessly, and then would come an 
obvious period of penury, when he more or less lived with, 
and on, his bosom friends the Marchese and Marchesa 
Pescobaldi. 

More than once he had been associated in some big busi- 
ness enterprise, but real, regular work bored him. It was 
now well known in Roman society that he was looking out 
for a rich wife. M. Popeau’s informant had added that had 
the Count been indifferent to the appearance of the lady, he 
could have made more than one very wealthy marriage. But 
he was fastidious and over-particular. Not long ago he had 
very nearly become engaged to a great American-Irish 
heiress. But the young lady, unlike most Irish girls, had been 
unattractive, and at the last moment Count Beppo had drawn 
back. 

This had been the more foolish of him because money 
was to Count Beppo like the air which we human beings 
breathe — it was a thing which he could not do without. 

M. Popeau, who naturally regarded Lily as being only 
the niece of a fairly well-to-do British ex-civil servant, felt 
very uneasy. 

He was seriously afraid that the good-looking Italian, 
taken as he obviously was with the girl’s innocent charm 
and beauty, would make violent love to her and then ride 
away — as men of his type are doing every day all the world 
over. 

To a Frenchman there could be no comparison between 
Angus Stuart and Beppo Polda. Polda was a fascinating 


The Lonely House 151 

man knowing all the turns of the great game of love, Stuart 
simply an honest, straightforward, fine-natured young sol- 
dier. He longed to warn the girl more explicitly of the 
danger she was running. He told himself that perhaps it 
would be wiser to do so a little later on. 

‘‘I understand,’’ he said, ‘‘that Count Beppo is staying in 
Monte Carlo for some time?” 

“That is what the Countess hoped,” answered Lily, a little 
coldly. “But he spoke last night as if he could only stay 
a few days.” 

She still felt very ruffled. Fond though she was of M. 
Popeau, she did not intend to allow him to give her hints 
as to how to behave herself with a young man. 

“Fm glad to hear that,” exclaimed the Frenchman, and 
there was indeed a tone of hearty relief and surprise in his 
voice. 

“As for me, I’m sorry he’s going so soon ! Lily exclaimed. 
“/ like Beppo! I think he and I are going to be great 
friends.” 

They were now close to the steps of the Casino. Angus 
Stuart came up to them, an eager look on his face : 

“May I join you?” he asked, with the touch of old-fash- 
ioned courtesy which M. Popeau found so pleasant in the 
young man. 

“Of course, of course, dear friend! You shall come and 
assist me in initiating Mademoiselle in the joys of play!” 
He turned to Lily. “How much money have you got with 
you ?” 

Lily opened her bag and counted. “Forty francs,” she 
said. 

“Well, that is exactly right. It will not ruin you to offer 
up that tribute to the Goddess of Chance. On the other 
hand, it will be pleasant if the forty francs become a hun- 
dred or two hundred francs!” 

“That would be very nice indeed,” confessed the girl, 
smiling. 

She was astonished to find how intensely conscious she 


1 52 The Lonely House 

was of Angus Stuart’s • quiet presence by her side. She 
longed — which was not very grateful of her — for M. Pop- 
eau to move away, and leave them alone together. They 
hadn’t met for two whole days, and she suddenly felt what 
a long time it had seemed. 

The pillared hall or atrium of the Casino was full of a 
motley crowd of people, and Lily began to take eager notice 
of the amusing scene before her. Beppo had been quite 
right — all colours and all types of humanity were repre- 
sented in the moving mass of men and women now gathered 
together in this, the splendid palace of the Goddess of 
Chance. 

“I will see to your admission card. Have you anything 
you desire to leave in the way of a cloak or a parasol ?” 

She hesitated. “Yes, I think I will leave my parasol,” she 
said. 

Angus Stuart accompanied her to the counter, where a 
gorgeous-looking flunkey took her parasol and gave her a 
voucher. 

“I feel so excited !” she exclaimed, looking up at her 
companion. 

He said in a low tone, “Have you had ” and then 

checked himself sharply, for M. Popeau had come up to 
them. 

“Come along!” cried the Frenchman. “This is a great 
moment in your life!” 

He spoke half -seriously, half with a touch of good- 
natured banter in his voice. 

Drawing a deep breath of excited anticipation, the girl 
passed through into the historic rooms which have seen 
so many dramas silently enacted — for not once in a thous- 
and days is there anything in the shape of a “scene” in the 
still, golden-haze atmosphere of the Temple of Chance. 

Though it was early, there was a crowd round each of 
the roulette tables, and for a moment Lily only noticed the 
curious-looking people composing the crowd. Then, gradu- 
ally, she began to see the table, the more so that her two 


The Lonely House 153 

companions were quietly shepherdmg her to a good place, 
close behind one of the croupiers. 

At first the girl felt as if she would never understand the 
complicated game; and then gradually she began to see the 
relation between the plan or tableau, divided off with yellow 
lines into squares, and the complicated giant yet toy-like 
wheel which was sunk in the centre of the long, compara- 
tively narrow table. 

“And now,” said 'M. Popeau, “would you like to stake 
what is equivalent to a five- franc piece on a number? What 
number will you choose?” 

“If I were you,” said Angus Stuart, “I should back 
twelve numbers. If you put your money on only one num- 
ber you’ve thirty-five chances against you.” 

Lily hesitated. “Yes, do as he advises,” said M. Popeau 
good-naturedly. 

And so Lily, guided by the Frenchman, put her small 
coloured counters on the middle dozen ; thus she covered the 
numbers 13 to 24. 

The croupier behind whom Lily was standing gave the 
huge wheel a powerful twist, then he flung a little ball into 
the revolving disc. It spun round and round, jumping 
about as if possessed by the spirit of motion. Then, at last, 
the great disc began to slow down. A croupier called out, 
“Rien ne va plus!” The ball leapt into one of the red and 
black pockets (each of which bears a corresponding num- 
ber to one marked on the plan), and the wheel ceased to 
revolve. Something was shouted out, and then Lily saw 
with surprise and joy two other five-franc counters joined 
to her stake. She looked round at her two companions. 

“Pick your money up,” said Angus Stuart quickly, “or 
someone else will get it!” 

Sure enough, as she put out her hand hesitatingly, an- 
other hand — a big, rather dirty-looking man’s hand — 
took up her three counters. 

“That money belongs to Mademoiselle!” called out M 
Popeau angrily. 


154 The Lonely House 

There came a murmured ‘T beg your pardon; I made a 
mistake!’' and the counters were dropped. 

Lily picked them up, feeling happy, and a little con- 
fused. 

“You might let her put on an en plein now,” pleaded 
M. Popeau with Captain Stuart. 

“Very well.” The Scotsman’s voice was reluctant and 
hesitating. “Put a five-franc counter on any number you 
like. You’re sure to lose it I” 

In spite of his discouraging remark, Lily put her counter 
on number twenty-one. 

“If I were you,” said Captain Stuart suddenly, “I should 
also put one on zero. That will give you two chances out 
of thirty-five.” 

She obeyed him. 

Once more the ball was flung into the middle of the 
revolving disc, once more it leapt about this way and that. 
And then, at last, after an extraordinary number of revolu- 
tions, it settled down into a pocket, and Lily heard a mur- 
mur of sharp disappointment run round the table. 

“You’ve won!” exclaimed Captain Stuart in an excited 
voice. “Zero has turned up! You’ve won — let me see — 
seven pounds, 'Miss Fairfield! Isn’t that splendid?” 

Lily felt very much pleased. She had been the only 
person to put anything on zero; accordingly, envious, con- 
gratulatory glances were cast on her from all parts of the 
table. 

“I wouldn’t play any more to-day if I were you,” whis- 
pered Captain Stuart. And again she obeyed him, stuflfing 
all the money she had won anyhow into her pretty little 
bag. 

And now M. Popeau began to play. The other two 
watched him — Angus Stuart with amusement, Lily with 
great curiosity. 

“He always plays the same cautious game, for all he’s 
so fond of advising other people to put on full on one 
number!” whispered the young man in the girl’s little ear. 


The Lonely House 155 

For a while 'Lily could not imagine what game M. Popeau 
was playing. He put the equivalent of thirty francs on the 
space marked passe and that of twenty francs on the first 
dozen. It looked to Lily as if he won every time — won, 
that is, something, somewhere. She couldn’t make it out ! 

"‘How does he do it?” she asked, puzzled. It was to her 
so strange that everybody didn’t play like Papa Popeau if 
he won every time. 

“You see, he covers nearly the whole of the board,” mut- 
tered Captain Stuart. “He only loses right out when six 
numbers turn up out of the thirty-five. Even when zero 
comes he doesn’t lose ever)rthing, for the money he has on 
passe is only ‘put into prison,’ as they call it. Yes, it’s an 
ingenious system, and I often wonder more people don’t 
play it. Of course, if you go on long eonugh, you’re bound 
to lose — even at Popeau’s game.” 

By this time the Frenchman was absorbed in his sys- 
tem, arid the two young people moved just a little way away 
from the table. Their friend glanced up to see where they 
were, and then went on playing. 

Lily was looking about her now with great amusement 
and curiosity. She felt in a happy mood. It was delightful 
to have won all that money — and so easily! It was very 
pleasant also to be with Angus Stuart. It seemed a long 
time since they had parted two days ago, he gripping her 
hand hard under the smiling eyes of the cab-driver. 

“I should so like to come here in the evenings,” she ex- 
claimed. 

“The Club’s the place to see in the evening,” he answered 
quickly. 

Anyone watching the two would have seen that they were 
in very different moods. Lily looked radiant. She was 
certainly the prettiest, as well as the best-dressed, girl in 
the rooms at that particular moment. As for her compan- 
ion, a look of doubt, of discomfort, of suspense was on his 
face. But she was quite unaware of it. She prattled gaily 
on, excited and interested by all she saw. Even when two 


156 The Lonely House 

stout women pushed so roughly past her as almost to make 
her lose her balance she only laughed. 

At last, as they saw M. Popeau detach himself from the 
table and began his ambling walk towards them, a satisfied 
air on his fat, placid face, Angus Stuart suddenly whis- 
pered, “I suppose you got my letter all right. Miss Fair- 
field?” 

“Your letter? No! Pve had no letter from you since 
the last one you wrote to me from Milan.” 

“I wrote to you the day before yesterday evening!” he 
exclaimed under his breath. And then, straightening him- 
self, remarked with an air of rather elaborate unconcern, 
“Well, Popeau, how goes it? Have you broken the bank?” 

“I have not broken the bank, but I have made two hun- 
dred francs!” replied the Frenchman gaily. “And that, 
after all, is not bad! At one moment I had made a good 
deal more, but alas! twice number fifteen turned up and 
swept away a hundred francs of my winnings. I was very 
foolish not to leave off — as Mademoiselle so wisely did.” 

And then something very untoward happened. Lily sud- 
denly discovered that her charming little bag and its con- 
tents had disappeared. The silk cords by which it had hung 
loosely on her right arm were still there, dangling help- 
lessly. 

She looked about her, bewildered and chagrined. 

“It must have been taken by one of the women who 
pushed past you just now,” exclaimed Captain Stuart. 

“Fll try and not think any more about it. After all, Fve 
only really lost forty francs,” said Lily vexedly. 


CHAPTER XVI 


T hey strolled about the Rooms for a while, and finally 
spent an amusing half-hour watching the ‘‘trente- 
et-quarante” players. But all the time Lily was asking 
herself what there could have been in the letter which Cap- 
tain Stuart had written to her, and which had not yet 
reached her? As for the loss of her money, she really did 
manage to forget it. 

Angus Stuart put a pink counter, that is, twenty francs, 
on the board three separate times, and each time he lost. 

‘'Unhappy in play, happy in love, my friend!’’ quoted M. 
Popeau chaffingly. “I think I shall have to give you a mas- 
cot.” 

And then Lily bethought herself of what Aunt Cosy had 
said concerning the Marchesa Pescobaldi. “Do you believe 
in the Evil Eye,” she asked eagerly. 

Somewhat to her surprise, M. Popeau hesitated. 

“That is a curious question,” he said, “but I will answer 
you truly. I have long thought that there are in this 
strange world both men and women who can bring mis- 
fortune on those whom they do not like — just as there are 
human beings who radiate happiness and goodness.” 

Captain Stuart broke in: “Surely persons may have the 
Evil Eye and so injure what they love best in the world, 
without being able to help it?” 

“Yes,” said M. Popeau gravely, “that is the true Evil 
Eye. I hope you have not met anyone with the Evil Eye 
lately. Mademoiselle? That would certainly account for the 
theft of your winnings this afternoon !” 

“Yes, Pm afraid I have.” She laughed gaily. 

“Has Count Beppo the Evil Eye?” asked M. Popeau. 

“Oh, no! Whatever made you think such a thing? The 

157 


158 The Lonely House 

person who is supposed to have the Evil Eye is a woman. 
Beppo Polda is staying here with a certain Marchese and 
Marchesa Pescobaldi. According to my aunt” — Lily had 
now quite slipped into the way of calling the Countess Polda 
her aunt — “this Italian lady has the Evil Eye.” 

“I don’t know that I would believe everything the Countess 
Polda would say about another lady,” said M. Popeau 
reflectively. Then he added, almost as if speaking to him- 
self: “I did not realise that Count Beppo was with the 
Pescobaldis.” 

“They all came together, and they are all going away 
together, very soon,” said Lily. 

“And what do you think of the Marchesa?” asked the 
Frenchman. “She was a very beautiful woman when I 
last saw her — ^before the war.” 

“She is very, very beautiful still!” exclaimed Lily. “Her 
eyes are lovely — like large sparkling jewels. I looked well 
into them, but, of course, I could not see which was the 
Evil Eye!” 

“Do not laugh at the Evil Eye,” said M. Popeau warn- 
ingly. “I could tell you some curious stories about those 
who are supposed to possess it. The most dramatic of all my 
tales concerned the terrible fire which took place in Paris 
years ago, at what was called the Charity Bazaar. There 
were people who were so unkind as to suggest that the 
tragedy occurred owing to the presence of a very high Italian 
personage who was known to have the Evil Eye. He had 
just left the building when the fire broke out.” 

They wandered about, all over the Casino, and then they 
went across to the Hotel de Paris and M. Popeau ordered 
tea. Both the young Scotsman and the elderly Frenchman 
vied with one another in “fussing” over their guest, and 
Lily felt happy and exhilarated — ^what a delightful day she 
was having! 

“And now,” said M. Popeau at last, “I fear it is time that 
I fulfilled my promise of escorting you back to La Solitude, 
Mademoiselle.” 


The Lonely House 159 

“I hope you will allow me began Captain Stuart, 

but before he could finish his sentence, Lily exclaimed, 
“Why, there’s Beppo Polda!” 

Hurrying towards them was a tall, dark man to whom 
Angus Stuart took an instant, instinctive, violent dislike. 
He told himself that Beppo Polda looked a foppish, the- 
atrical fellow. That, however, was very unfair — it only 
meant that Beppo looked exceptionally well-dressed, what 
some people call “smart.” 

“I was so afraid that I should miss you!” he exclaimed, 
taking very little notice of Lily’s companions. “Are you 
ready, Lily? Pve got the car outside. We ought to start 
pretty soon, as I have to get back to the Hidalgo by five 
o’clock.” 

“You will do that very easily,” interposed M. Popeau. 
“It’s only a quarter-past four now.” 

Stuart felt annoyed that the Frenchman seemed to take 
it for granted that Lily would go off with this dandified- 
looking foreigner. 

“I propose taking Miss Fairfield for a short drive first.” 
There was a touch of haughty decision in the young Count’s 
voice. It was not that he resented M. Popeau’s apparent 
friendship with Lily, but already he reciprocated Angus 
Stuart’s sudden, unreasoning dislike. He pretended not to 
know that the Scotsman belonged to the little party. 

“Beppo,” said Lily, rather awkwardly, “this is Captain 
Stuart. Captain Stuart, may I introduce my cousin. Count 
Beppo Polda?” 

The two men looked at one another with a long, measur- 
ing glance, then they shook hands frigidly. 

As they were making their way to the door, Lily fell 
behind for a moment by Angus Stuart’s side. “Perhaps 
I shall find your letter at La Solitude,” she whispered. She 
added : “I hope I shall.” 

His thin, keen face lit up. “D’you really mean that. Miss 
Fairfield?” 

“Of course I do I” 


i6o The Lonely House 

She shook hands with him and with M. Popeau; and 
a few moments later the car was going at a good pace past 
the Casino, in the opposite direction to that which would 
have taken them up to La Solitude. 

“Is Captain Stuart an old friend of yours?” asked Beppo 
abruptly. 

Lily hesitated. To her secret relief, he went on at once, 
without waiting for an answer: “The word friendship may 
mean so much or so little, my little cousin!” 

“That is very true !” said Lily demurely. 

“But there can be no such doubt about the word love!'* 

Her eyes dropped before her companion’s eager, search- 
ing, ardent gaze. Was this what M. Popeau had meant to 
warn her against? 

The motor slowed down. They were now looking across 
the great green promontory which juts out of the blue sea 
to the left of Monte Carlo. 

“I wish I could stay on a little longer,” said Beppo in a 
low voice. “What a cursed thing is money ! Still, we poor 
mortals can’t do without it. So I shall go back to Rome 
and try to make what we call a lucky hit, eh? Then I 
shall come back, and perhaps stay up at La Solitude. Shall 
I be welcome, Lily?” 

She looked up at him. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Of 
course you will be welcome, Beppo !” 

As is almost invariably the case with a certain type of 
girl, Lily liked to mix the jam of flirtation with the powder 
of good advice, and she did feel that Beppo, with regard 
to his father and mother, was indeed very thoughtless and 
selfish. So she added, deliberately: “Your return will be 
welcome to me, and also ” 

“Also?” he repeated eagerly. He tried to guess what 
she was going to say, but failed. 

“Also to your father and mother,” she said gravely. “I 
wonder if you know how much they care for you? They 
really live for you, and for nothing else, Beppo!” 

To her surprise he looked disturbed and troubled. “I’m 


The Lonely House i6i 

afraid that’s true,” he said ruefully. “And yet, Lily, seri- 
ously, I feel I really know very little about them! I know 
they love me, Lily — nay, that there is nothing that they 
would not do for me — and yet they seem to me almost like 
strangers.” 

Lily was indeed astonished. “I don’t understand,” she 
exclaimed. “What exactly do you mean, Beppo?” 

Somehow they seemed to have come much nearer to one 
another in the last two or three minutes, for Beppo Polda’s 
deep, vibrant voice had in it a note of sincerity which sur- 
prised the girl, and made her feel far more really kindly to 
him than she had done yet. 

“They never tell me anything about their private affairs,” 
he went on slowly. “I need not tell you — for, of course, 
you must have seen it for yourself — ^that mamma’s is the 
master mind. She is a very clever woman. Sometimes” 
— his voice dropped — “I wonder if she is not too clever! 
I speak to you thus frankly because I feel that you are 
already one of the family.” 

Lily felt touched by his words — though she thought it 
an odd thing to say, for, of course, she was not really related 
to them at all. She wondered, uncomfortably, if Beppo 
knew that she was his parents’ paying guest. 

“Ought we not to be turning now?” she suggested. “I’m 
afraid Aunt Cosy will be getting anxious about me. She is 
very particular.” 

“One can never be too particular about a young 
girl,” observed Beppo sententiously. “But still, it won’t 
hurt mamma to be anxious for another twenty minutes 
or so.” 

They drove on, and Lily told herself that it was very 
pleasant to be motoring through this beautiful country, while 
listening to Beppo’s full, caressing voice. She found herself 
answering all kinds of questions about her own childhood 
and girlhood, and she could not help feeling flattered that 
Beppo was so obviously interested in all that concerned her. 
In that he was very unlike Captain Stuart. He seemed to 


1 62 The Lonely House 

take everything for granted. Beppo was even anxious to 
know of what illnesses her father and mother had died ! 

In some ways this fine, strong-looking young fellow seemed 
to the English girl more like a woman than a man. He was 
so interested in the sort of things which are supposed, 
perhaps erroneously, only to interest women. He spoke 
admiringly of her frock and her hat, and she gave him a 
lively account of her expedition to Mme. Jeanne. 

“Excellent Jeanne !” he at once exclaimed. “I must man- 
age to find time to go and see her.’" He added : “She has 
a sister who keeps an hotel in the Condamine. My father 
was saying only to-day that Jeanne’s sister had written to 
him about some man in her hotel who desired a card of 
admission to the Qub. Papa is so good-natured !” 

Lily made no answer to that remark. She did not think 
the Count at all good-natured. He was entirely absorbed 
in himself, and in his own concerns. But, of course, there 
could be no doubt at all about his great love for his son. 

They were nearing La Solitude when Lily bethought her- 
self of what had happened in the restaurant about the gold 
snuff-box. “I want to ask you something,” she said suddenly. 

Beppo turned his face down on his pretty companion. 
“Ask me anything you like,” he exclaimed gaily. “And I 
promise that you shall have a true answer !” 

“It’s only,” she said, rather nervously, “that I wish you 
would show me that lovely little cigarette-box again, Beppo. 
Is it really true that you bought it in Milan? Somehow I 
don’t think it is ” 

“Well, no,” Beppo answered smiling. “It is not true. 
But you are a clever little witch to have discovered the fact !” 

He stopped the car. They were on a lonely cross-road, 
and Lily will always remember the exact spot, and what 
was said there, though at the time it did not make very 
much impression on her. 

He took the gold box out of his pocket and handed it to 
her. 

“Look here!” he exclaimed. “If you’ve taken such a 


The Lonely House 163 

fancy it it, allow me to present it to you, my fair cousin — 
just as a souvenir?” 

How strange that he shouIH say that — it was almost ex- 
actly what poor George Ponting had said ! 

“I don’t want it, thank you, Beppo. I only wanted to 
look at it again. Then if you did not buy it at Milan, how 

' you get it?” 

The more she looked at it, the more she felt certain that 
it was the box she had seen on the evening of her arrival 
at La Solitude. 

‘T don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you”; he hesitated a 
moment, then said frankly : ‘‘This box was a present from 
mamma. As a matter of fact, she gave it me yesterday, 
when you went off to see Cristina in the Jcitchen. Do you 
remember ?” 

“Yes,” said Lily in a low voice. “I remember when you 
mean.” And she handed the box back to him. 

“I confess,” went on Beppo, “that I did not in the least 
understand why there should be any mystery about it! 
But, of course, I could not contradict mamma when she came 
out with that absurd tale of my having bought the box in 
Milan last year.” , 

At last they reached La Solitude. “No, I won’t come in,” 
said Beppo, shaking his head. “I’ve got to go back to the 
Hidalgo Hotel, and take the Marchesa for a drive before it 
gets pitch dark.” 

“I hope I haven’t made you late!” exclaimed Lily, for as 
a matter of fact it was now after five o’clock. 

“Oh, no. I shall say that something went wrong — ^things 
are always going wrong with this old car! It’s high time 
the Marchese had a new one. But he is careful! Careful- 
ness is an Italian virtue — I call it an Italian vice !” 

“Aunt Cosy will be dreadfully disappointed,” said the girl. 

And then Beppo suddenly changed his mind. The thought 
of spending even a few more minutes in Lily Fairfield’s 
company was pleasant to him. He would tell the Marchesa 
that he had had a bad puncture. 


164 The Lonely House 

‘To please you I will just go up and say how-d’you-do to 
Mamma !” he exclaimed, looking at her tenderly. 

Together they walked up through the wood, and so on to 
the lawn, whence Lily noticed Aunt Cosy’s ample form be- 
hind one of the drawing-room windows. 

The Countess waved her hand gaily to the young couple. 
She opened the window. “I was getting quite anxious about 
you, Lily,” she exclaimed. “But all’s well that- ends 
well.” 

“Lily and I have had a delightful drive,” said Beppo. 
“And I’ve just come up to say how-d’you-do and good- 
bye!” And then, to Lily’s discomfiture, he suddenly 
asked : 

“By the way. Mamma, why did you tell that story — ^they 
call it a tarradiddle in England — ^about the snuff-box you so 
kindly gave to me?” 

The Countess looked disturbed and surprised at the ques- 
tion. 

“I will tell you why, my son,” she said slowly. “That 
beautiful box was given to me by a friend who is now dead. 
I did not wish to speak of him. That is why, my dear child, 
I made up that little tale.” 

“You made me look like a fool I” said Beppo crossly. “You 
need not have said anything at all — and I would not have 
said anything either ! After all, it is no one’s business what 
you give me or what I give you.” 

Still, he kissed her very affectionately and then went off, 
leaving them standing together. 

Lily turned impulsively to the Countess. 

“Then poor Mr. Ponting gave you that box when he said 
good-bye?” She spoke in a very low voice. “He offered to 
give it to me. But I wouldn’t take it. He was grateful to 
you. Aunt Cosy, for all your kindness, so I quite under- 
stand his having given it to you.” 

The Countess was now looking at Lily with a long, 
measuring, rather anxious look. 

“Yes,” she ^id at last. “You have guessed the truth! 


The Lonely House 165 

That charming little object belonged to poor Mr. Ponting. 
He asked me to take it as a last gift; and though I, too, 
hesitated, feeling the delicacy that you so rightly felt, I 
did end by taking it, for I thought of Beppo. I knew He 
would like it. But I did not want to recall that sad affair 
to-day, when you were all so happy.” 

“I wish you would let me tell M. Popeau,” said Lily. *T 
know the description of that snuff-box has been circulated 
all over Nice and Mentone ” 

“Let me beg you,” cried the Countess hurriedly, “to say 
nothing about it, Lily! We have suffered enough over that 
business. They would probably send up again from the 
police, and it would be odious.” 

As the girl, surprised, remained silent, the other went 
on urgently: “May I trust you? Will you give me your 
word of honour you will say nothing about the gold box, 
dear child?” 

“I certainly will say nothing if you would rather I did not 
do so,” said Lily. Still, she was sorry to know that she had 
unwittingly deceived both Mr. Ponting’s friend and the 
police. She knew that they had attached considerable im- 
portance to the disappearance of the gold box. 

Before going upstairs Lily went into the kitchen, and 
there, lying on the table was the letter which had been 
posted by Angus Stuart something like thirty-six hours 
ago. She took it up, Cristina watching her the while. 

“Did this letter arrive yesterday morning?” she asked. 

Cristina hesitated. “The Countess brought it in about an 
hour ago; I do not know when it arrived,” she said at 
last. 

Lily took up her letter and turned away. She went up to 
her room, and walked right across to the window. Then 
she saw that the letter had been steamed open, and fast- 
ened down again rather clumsily. It was too bad of Aunt 
Cosy ! It was hateful of her ! 

The letter ran as follows: 


1 66 The Lonely House 

Dear Miss Fairfield, 

This is to tell you that I am very, very glad you 
and I are friends as well as pals — pals as well as friends. I 
feel awfully distressed that such a fearful thing happened 
to you on Sunday. Remember your promise to your friend, 

Angus Stuart. 


CHAPTER XVII 


T here is nothing else to be done, Angelo. I regret 
the necessity as much as you do.’’ 

It was the day after Lily’s delightful drive with Beppo, 
and the words floated out to where she was sitting in the 
late morning sunshine. They were uttered by the Countess, 
whose sitting-room window was open. 

The Count’s low answer to his wife’s observation took 
Lily somewhat by surprise, for he spoke with much more 
feeling than she had yet heard him display. 

‘T will not sully my lips by telling you the kind of in- 
formation about 'Monte Carlo the old brute expected me to 
give him.” 

“All the more do I ask you to do this for the sake of our 
Beppo. His whole future depends on it.” 

“If I do as you wish, Lily will have to accompany me.” 
The Count uttered these words in a slow, hesitating 
voice. 

The girl had no wish to act as eavesdropper, so she called 
out: “Is there anything I can do for you. Uncle Angelo?” 

The Countess appeared at the window. She was flustered 
and looked annoyed. 

“The truth is,” she exclaimed volubly, “that Beppo is in 
business relations with a Dutch gentleman. The matter con- 
cerns a British affair in which they are both interested, 
and we think you may be useful in assuring the Dutchman 
that things in England are going on quite well. You came 
so lately from London, and we think this person will take 
your word, when he would not take ours — ” she waited a 
few moments, then said firmly, “I should like you to go 
now, so will you put on that pretty new coat and skirt? 
Then you can accompany Uncle Angelo to the Condamine.” 

167 


1 68 The Lonely House 

Lily hurried into the house, and a few minutes later the 
Countess was walking across the lawn to see them off. 

“Do not say an)^hing of this matter to Beppo,” she said 
anxiously. 

And Lily answered : “Of course I won’t, Aunt Cosy.” 
But she spoke very coldly. She could not forgive the 
Countess Polda for having opened her letter. 

The two ill-assorted companions went down the hill to- 
gether in absolute silence. Count Polda was always a man 
of few words. But at last: 

“I shall be asking my friend, Mr. Vissering, to supper 
to-night,” he said suddenly. “I shall be obliged, Lily, if 
you would refrain from mentioning the fact that you will be 
out this evening. He is very fond of English people, and I 
do not know that he would come if he thought that he was 
only to be alone with your Aunt Cosy and myself.” 

Lily felt just a little uncomfortable. Not for the first 
time she told herself that foreigners seem to have a curious 
dislike to telling the truth. 

But the girl had many things to fill her mind just now. 
In a sense she was sorry that Beppo Polda was going back 
to Rome in two days, for she had enjoyed seeing even a 
little glimpse of the brilliant, amusing world of Monte 
Carlo in his company. Also she felt flattered at his obvious 
admiration and liking for herself. Nothing could be nicer 
than the way Beppo had behaved to her yesterday, and she 
resented M. Popeau’s hints and insinuations very much 
indeed. 

These desultory thoughts passed to and fro through Lily 
Fairfield’s mind during the longish walk, and she was sud- 
denly surprised to find herself and the Count in a part of 
the Condamine where she had never been before. 

Was it here that Uncle Angelo’s business friend lived? 
Yes, for at last they stopped in front of a large, old-fash- 
ioned house, across which was written in large, black letters, 
“Utrecht Hotel.” 

Walking through the open door into a small hall lit by 


The Lonely House 169 

a skylight, Count Polda shook hands in a friendly way with 
a respectable-looking woman who sat at a desk making out 
an account. 

“Is Mr. Vissering in, Madame S’ansot?” he asked. And 
the woman said, “Yes, I believe so. Monsieur le Comte. 
But I will go and see.” 

The woman came back after a few moments. “Mr. Vis- 
sering is very busy writing in hk room,” she said. “He begs 
Monsieur le Comte to call another time.” 

“Will you please take him up this card?” said Count 
Polda. 

He went up to the desk where the woman had been sitting 
and dipped a pen in the ink. Lily could not help seeing 
that on the card, on which was engraved, above “Count 
Polda,” an elegant little coronet, he wrote the words: “I 
have brought with me Miss Lily Fairfield, my young English 
niece, whom you will perhaps be pleased to meet.” 

Again the woman went off, and when she came back she 
exclaimed, “He will be down in two or three minutes. Please 
come this way!” ^ 

She showed the viStors into a dingy little back room, 
where there were three deep armchairs and a number of cane- 
bottomed chairs. On two marble-topped tables were ash- 
trays and match-boxes. The windows were shut, and the 
room smelt musty. What a strange place in which to receive 
visitors ! 

Before leaving the room the woman came close up to the 
Count and said in a low voice : 

“Does Monsieur le Comte know anything about Mr. Vis- 
sering? We find him a very curious kind of gentleman! 
He insists on paying every day, and he is so mean — he 
scrutinises every sou in the account ! Yet we know that he 
has a very large sum of money always on his person. That 
is not safe in a place like Monte Carlo, and my husband 
has begged him again and again to leave his money in our 
safe. But he is very suspicious.” 

“I know even less about him than you do,” answered 


170 The Lonely House 

the Count amiably. "‘But I am not surprised at what you 
tell me. A certain type of nouveau riche either spends too 
much or too little. I know very little of your client. You 
will remember that you yourself introduced him to me.” 

“Yes, and Fm very grateful to Monsieur le Comte for 
the trouble he took. But as a client Mr. Vissering has 
disappointed us very much !” She waited a moment. “Was 
Monsieur le Comte able to get the card of admission he 
desired so much to possess? Fancy a man of that wealth 
not being able to get into the Club !” 

“That was simply because Mr. Vissering did not already 
belong to a club in his own country. He is very old-fash- 
ioned, as you know, but there is no harm in him.” 

The woman looked dubiously at Lily. “Ah, Monsieur le 
Comte, you do not know the things that I know ! But there 
— I will say nothing.” 

After Madame Sansot had left them the Count turned to 
Lily : “This fellow Vissering is truly a queer kind of man,” 
he muttered. “He was one of the war profiteers of Holland. 
That makes him feel he has the right to be insolent. You 
must not notice his odd manner.” 

Lily smiled. 

“Of course I won’t. Uncle Angelo !” 

Those who love Lily Fairfield hope that she will live to 
a good old age, but however long she lives she will never, 
never forget that shabby little smoking-room of the Utrecht 
Hotel. And yet what happened there did not seem at the 
time so very remarkable, memorable, or strange — it was 
simply very disagreeable and unexpected. 

After they had been waiting there perhaps in all five 
minutes, the door opened, and a huge old man walked into 
the room. Lily told herself that he looked like a big, shaggy 
Newfoundland dog — only not so nice! What was impres- 
sive about the stranger was a look of age wedded to that of 
great vitality. His ugly, powerful face bore a strange ex- 
pression of hesitancy and expectation. 

Count Polda bowed, coldly and distantly. 


The Lonely House 171 

“As I was passing by, I thought, Mr. Vissering, that I 
would come in and convey to you an invitation from my 
wife. The Countess will be very pleased if you will come 
and spend this evening with us.*’ 

There was a pause. By way of answer the old man came 
close up to where his visitors were standing. He did not 
even glance at the Count, but he stared at Lily, and there 
was something so searching in that bold, hard, measuring 
look that the girl’s own eyes fell before it. 

“So this is your niece. Monsieur le Comte?” he said at 
last, speaking French with a strong, gutteral accent. 

“Yes,” replied the Count, rather nervously. “This is 
Miss Lily Fairfield, my English niece.” 

Then the old Dutchman broke into English. 

“Is it true,” he asked the girl abruptly, “that the Count is 
your uncle?” 

If it came to the point, it was, of course, not true. But 
Lily told herself quickly that what she was or was not did 
not concern this odious old man. 

“I am on a visit to my aunt, the Countess Polda,” she 
said quietly. 

“Then Madame la Comtesse is English?” asked Mr. Vis- 
sering. 

That question Lily did not feel called upon to answer. 
And the Count interposed: “I shall be grateful if you will 
speak French. I learnt English as a young man, but it 
is not a language with which I am familiar.” 

And then the old Dutchman turned again to Lily, and, 
speaking this time in French, and with a kind of ogreish 
look and familiar intonation, which she found very unpleasant 
and disconcerting, he exclaimed: 

“I asked you that question. Mademoiselle, because, as a 
matter of fact, I inquired of my good new friend here. Count 
Polda, whether he knew any charming young ladies in Monte 
Carlo with whom I might make acquaintance. I am on 
the look-out for a little wife.” 

Lily stared at him. What an extraordinarily, disagreeable. 


172 The Lonely House 

ridiculous old man ! And what a very odd kind of joke to 
make to a girl he had only met a few moments ago ! 

‘'I have always admired young English ladies very much,” 
went on the strange old fellow, “and I have here before me 
a perfect specimen.” He bowed. 

It was an ungainly bow, a kind of imitation of the Count’s 
elegant and graceful salute. 

“My niece,” interposed Count Polda quickly, “has just 
come from London, and she has much that is interesting to 
say about her happy, prosperous country.” 

“There are not many Dutchmen in London,” said Mr. Vis- 
sering grimly. “Before the war Germans were preferred.” 
He laughed harshly. “As for us, we have always preferred 
France to England.” 

And then Lily, feeling that the time had come when 
she must say something to help Uncle Angelo, suddenly 
remarked, a little timidly, and yet firmly too: 

“I wonder. Monsieur, if you are acquainted with a Dutch 
gentleman named Baron van Voorst? He is the only Dutch- 
man I have ever met.” 

And then, to her surprise, and to the Count’s relief, there 
came a distinct change over the old man. He drew a long 
breath. 

“I have not met him,” he said, again speaking in English, 
but in a very different and a far more courteous tone. “The 
Baron is certainly a very distinguished man ; one of our best- 
known statesmen. Do I understand you to say that you are 
personally acquainted with him?” 

“Yes,” said Lily, feeling — she could not have told you 
why — a little less uncomfortable. “I know him and his 
family quite well. He had his daughter with him — a girl 
about my own age — and they both said they hoped I would 
go some day to Holland; in fact, they asked me to go and 
stay wdth them there next spring to see the tulips in flower.” 

Here Count Polda intervened with what Lily could not 
help feeling was a rather uncalled-for, and snobbish, inter- 
ruption : 


The Lonely House 173 

“My niece, Miss Fairfield, comes of a very good English 
family,” he observed pompously. 

“People of good family are but human after all,” said the 
old man disagreeably. “Does Mademoiselle frequent the 
Casino ?” 

He was certainly speaking more pleasantly, but, still, 
there was a curious note in his voice — a note to which Lily 
was very unaccustomed, that of a certain contemptuous 
familiarity. 

“Pve only been in the Rooms once,” she said quietly. 

“And did Mademoiselle play?” 

Lily laughed. “Oh yes,” she exclaimed. “Of course I 
played — and I won too ! But my bag was stolen.” 

There was a long pause, and then all at once Mr. Vissering 
exclaimed: “I beg of you to sit down! Forgive my rude- 
ness for not having invited you to do so before.” 

Count Polda hesitated. He looked at Lily, as if wishing 
to discover how she felt. But she, on her side, was only 
anxious to do what would best further Uncle Angelo’s and 
Beppo’s business relations with this unpleasant, eccentric 
old man. So she sat down on one of the cane-bottomed 
cairs, and Mr. Vissering let himself fall heavily into one 
of the armchairs. 

“Well,” he said, ''is it a bargain? Am I to have the 
company of Miss Fairfield this afternoon in the Rooms? 
If so, I will bring with me a pretty gold purse con- 
taining a thousand francs, and I will give her a lesson 
in gambling.” 

The Count answered for the now astonished and indig- 
nant Lily. 

“I am sorry, but that is impossible! My niece has an 
engagement this afternoon. Meanwhile, I recall to your 
memory my wife’s invitation. We hope you will do us the 
pleasure of coming up to La Solitude for supper. We are 
simple people, but I think you would enjoy an evening in 
the pure air.” 

The old man seemed to be hesitating. “I do not know 


174 The Lonely House 

how I should find your house,” he said at last. ‘‘I should 
not care to take a taxi. Once you are in a taxi you are no 
longer your own master! I am one of those men who 
believe in their own good right arm, as our friends the 
Germans used to say. I like to carry my fortune — or as 
much of it as I have with me — on my person. 

“There need be no question of a taxi,” said the Count 
quickly. “Fve been offered the loan of a motor by a 
friend. I will call at the garage on my way home and 
arrange to fetch you. The same motor will, of course, 
bring you back. You will be put to no expense.” 

“Ah, that is better! And you will bring our charming 
young friend here to fetch me?” 

The Count shook his head. “/ will fetch you, Mr. 
Vissering. Mademoiselle will be with my wife, waiting 
to greet you at La Solitude.” 

“Did you say dinner would be at seven o'clock?” 
asked the old man. “It is my habit to lunch early, 
therefore I am hungry by seven.” 

“It shall certainly be seven — or even half-past six, if 
you prefer it,” said the Count courteously. 

“No, seven will do. I shall expect you here at half- 
past six. Oh — and a word more. I was much gratified 
the other day by your kindly giving me a card of ad- 
mission to the Club. But I have not cared to use it, 
being alone. Would you mind coming down with me 
there to-night, and acting as my introducer?” 

“I, being a Monegasque, have no right to enter the 
Club,” said the Count. “But I have many friends, any 
one of whom would be charmed to introduce you. I will 
see one of them, the Marchese Pescobaldi, about the 
matter at once on leaving here.” 

“I thank you,” said Mr. Vissering slowly. 

“And now we 'must be going home, Lily,” said the 
Count in a relieved tone. “Your aunt will be expecting 
us.” 

The girl got up. Somehow she felt she did not want 


The Lonely House 175 

that strange old man even to touch her hand. She 
bowed distantly. 

He accompanied them into the hall. “Till to-night, 
then,” he said in French. Then, breaking into English, 
he exclaimed, “And do not forget — do not forget what 
I told you just now, my fair young lady !” 

“What you told me just now?” repeated Lily un- 
comfortably. Did he mean that ridiculous proposal that 
he should take her to the Casino and give her money to 
gamble with? 

“That I am on the look-out for a dear little wife!” 

Lily made no answer to this peculiar remark. She 
tried to smile, but when she got out in the street she took a 
deep breath. She had felt as if stifled in that frowsy 
little smoking-room. 

“What a brute, eh?” exclaimed the Count, after they 
had walked a few yards in silence. “You must forgive 
me, my dear Lily, for having exposed you to that low 
fellow^s vulgar joking!” 

“Fve never met such an extraordinary man,” said the 
girl hesitatingly. “His manner was so odd. Do you 
think that he is a little mad?” 

“He is an eccentric,” said the Count shortly. 

“I can't imagine why he wants to belong to the Club.” 

“He is, as you say in England, a snob,” observed the 
Count drily. 

“And do you really think he will be useful to Beppo?" 
asked Lily. 

“I know he will be,” replied the Count grimly. ' 

Then he fell into one of his long silences. 

“Have you not forgotten, Uncle Angelo, the message to 
the Marchese?” asked Lily at last. “I mean about Mr. 
Vissering and the Club.” 

“I have thought the matter over,” said the Count 
gravely, “and I do not feel I can propose such a plan to 
the Marchese. Mr. Vissering would be out of place in 
the Club. 


176 The Lonely House 

“You also said something about a car for to-night/' 
said Lily. 

“I have changed my mind about that too. I do not 
care to ask favours of people. I shall take one of those 
nice taxis that look like a private car, from one of the 
hotels.'" 

When they were within sight of La Solitude, he asked 
suddenly: “Are you going out with Beppo and the 
Pescobaldis this afternoon?" 

“No," said Lily. “There would not be room for me in 
the car. The Marchesa has asked some people they 
know in the hotel to go with them. Beppo said they 
meant to start early this morning, but they will be back 
in ample time for dinner, of course. I am to be at the 
Hidalgo Hotel at a quarter to seven." 

“And what time will you be home?" asked the Count. 
He turned and looked at Lily as he spoke. She was 
surprised, for he never seemed to take the slightest in- 
terest in her comings or goings. 

“Beppo wants me to have supper with him and his 
friends after the performance. They kindly suggest 
bringing me back, as Aunt Cosy would not like me to return 
alone so late.” 

“Then we cannot expect you home till after eleven?" 

“I fear it will be twelve o'clock. Uncle Angelo. But 
Cristina is going to sit up for me. It is very kind of her 
to do so." 

She waited, and then added, a little shyly: “I am so 
very fond of Cristina, Uncle Angelo!" 

“You are right to be that," he said feelingly. “She is 
a most excellent woman." 

“She is so fond of Beppo," said Lily. 

“Yes — yes, indeed; she could not love him more if she 
were his own mother! There is nothing — nothing that 
Cristina would not do for my Beppo '" 

There came a tone of real emotion into the Count's 
voice, and the girl, looking round at him, told herself 


The Lonely House 


177 


how very strange it was that the same man could be so 
frank and so deceitful, so cold in manner and at the 
same time such a devoted father. He now looked curi* 
ously pale and puffy, as well as very, very tired. 

“I wish Beppo could have stayed on in Monte Carlo 
a little longer,” she said kindly. 

The Count looked at her fixedly. ‘T hope,” he said 
.slowly, “that Beppo will stay in Monte Carlo for a con- 
siderable time.” 

Lily was surprised to hear him say this. Surely 
Beppo was going back to Rome at once? His own and 
his friends^ rooms at the Hotel Hidalgo were already 
let to another set of people from two days hence. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


ILY sat waiting in the brilliantly lighted vestibule 



of the Hotel Hidalgo. In her grey chiffon evening 
gown, and charming black and white cloak, she looked a 
sufficiently arresting figure to cause many admiring eyes to 
turn towards her as people passed through on their way to 
the dining-room. 

The party were to dine at seven sharp in order to be in 
good time for the gala performance at the Casino, and Lily 
had arrived about five minutes before the hour fixed; but 
now it was nearly half -past seven, and they were not yet 
back from their drive. She began to grow impatient. 

Poor Lily ! She did not feel particularly happy this 
evening. After the amusing and exciting days she had just 
gone through, to-day had dragged by dully and wearily, the 
only interlude being that unpleasant visit to Uncle Angelo’s 
odious acquaintance. She was glad indeed not to be dining 
at La Solitude to-night. The Dutchman’s manner had been 
so insultingly familiar till she had mentioned Uncle Tom’s 
nice friend, the Baron Van Voorst. Mr. Vissering was 
evidently an awful snob! 

During the whole of the afternoon there had seemed to 
rest a heavy load of depression on the Lonely House. Aunt 
Cosy was impatient and restless, while Cristina, obviously 
ill at ease, kept sighing long, sad sighs. As for Count Polda, 
he had disappeared about four o’clock, to return a little 
before six laden with the costly makings of a luxurious cold 
supper. She, Lily, had helped Cristina to prepare the dining- 
room ; then she had dressed, putting on for the first time her 
beautiful grey chiffon evening gown, and magpie cloak. 
But, alas! with no delightful little bag to match. 

While waiting for the car which was to take her to the 


178 


The Lonely House 179 

Hotel Hidalgo there had again been some discussion as to 
what time she would return that night. 

“Understand, my little Lily, that I desire you to stay 
to the supper after the play. Beppo would be terribly dis- 
appointed if you did not do so !” So had said the Countess 
firmly, and Lily had answered, truthfully enough, that she 
would like very much to stay to supper. She had never 
been out to supper after a play, but many of her friends 
in England had sometimes talked as if the supper rather than 
the play was the most amusing part of an evening’s enter- 
tainment — and if amusing in London, how much more 
amusing at Monte Carlo ! 

At last a quaint-looking little man approached her, and, 
bowing low, observed: “Do I speak to Miss Fairfield?” And 
then he went on: “I have to tell you, Mademoiselle, that 
Count Beppo Polda and his party have had a breakdown in 
the mountains, forty miles away ! The Count found a house 
where they allowed him to telephone, and the message has 
just come through. He is greatly distressed, and suggests 
that Mademoiselle should have a little dinner here, and that 
then we should arrange to send Mademoiselle home with one 
of our chambermaids. There is no hope of Count Beppo 
being in time for the gala performance to-night. I can dis- 
pose of the tickets, if you approve that I do so.” 

Lily felt sharply disappointed. But she blessed Beppo 
for his kind thought. She was hungry as well as tired, and 
it would be such a comfort to have dinner here, at the 
Hotel Hidalgo, and then go back to La Solitude. If that 
odious Dutchman was still there she could slip up to 
her bedroom without going into * the drawing-room, leav- 
ing Cristina to explain later to the Countess what had 
happened. 

Conducted with ceremony by the manager to a little table 
in the dining-room, Lily enjoyed a most excellent meal. If 
only Papa Popeau and Angus Stuart had chosen the Hotel 
Hidalgo to come to this evening how delightful it would 


i8o The Lonely House 

have been! She longed to tell Captain Stuart that she had 
had his letter. ... 

By the time Lily had finished her meal most of the other 
diners had left. Again the manager himself escorted her 
to a car, in which she found a respectable-looking, elderly 
Frenchwoman already seated. 

“I should like to pay for my dinner,” she said a little 
awkwardly. 

The man shook his head. “If I allowed Mademoiselle to 
do that, Count Beppo Polda would indeed be angry with 
me!” he exclaimed. 

As they rolled quickly along, the woman by Lily’s side 
began talking in a pleasant, easy way. She explained that 
she was the head chambermaid of the Hotel Hidalgo, and 
as such had special charge of the Marchesa Pescobaldi’s 
apartments. She spoke admiringly of Count Beppo. And 
then she startled Lily by saying something which made it 
clear that the good woman believed that the young lady 
by her side was his fiancee. 

Lily felt annoyed, and very much taken aback. But as 
the actual word had not been spoken, she did not feel that 
she could put the woman right. Still, she did rather go out 
of her way to say that she was related to Count Beppo’s 
mother, and that she was only here, at Monte Carlo, on a 
visit. 

When they reached the clearing among the olive trees 
which, to Lily, always recalled that terrible morning when she 
found poor George Ponting’s body — she pulled five francs 
> out of her purse, and put it into the chambermaid’s hand. 

“I will be sure and tell Count Beppo that I brought 
Mademoiselle quite safely home,” said the woman meaningly. 

Lily made her way slowly up the broad path through the 
little wood. There was a brilliant moon, and as she emerged 
on to the lawn she saw the long, two-storeyed house almost 
as clearly as if it was daylight. So absolute was the still- 
ness that Lily, with a sense of relief, told herself that the 
eccentric guest had surely gone. 


The Lonely House i8i 

All the windows opening on to the terrace, as was always 
the case in the evening, were tightly closed, and shuttered 
too. That meant that she must go round to the front door. 

She rather dreaded what she believed was certain to 
happen — the Count’s quiet surprise at her early return. Aunt 
Cosy’s vociferous lamentations and expressions of regret at 
Beppo’s accident among the mountains, and Cristina’s sym- 
pathy with her, Lily’s, disappointment. There was a chance 
that the Count and Countess, who were fond of going early 
to bed, had already retired. If so, she might postpone the 
story of what had happened till the next morning. 

While these thought were passing quickly through her 
mind, one of the drawing-room windows opened very quietly, 
and Cristina walked out of it. She looked curiously ethereal 
and ghostly in the moonlight, and her small face was white 
and drawn. She put her finger on her lips. 

“Hush!” she whispered. “I thought I heard footsteps, 
so I peeped out and saw that it was only you. Mademoiselle.” 

“Yes,” whispered back Lily. “Count Beppo had a break- 
down, and couldn’t return in time for the play, so I’ve 
come home. Are the Count and Countess upstairs yet?” 

The question seemed superfluous, as otherwise they would 
have been in the room whence Cristina had just come. But 
the old woman shook her head. 

“Sh — sh!” she murmured under her breath. And then 
she uttered the words, "7/ y a du mondef' It is an un- 
translatable expression, which may be roughly rendered as, 
“We have company to-night,” the words being applicable 
to one visitor or to a dozen. 

“Hasn’t Mr. Vissering gone yet ?” asked Lily. “How very 
strange, Cristina — he said he must go quite early. I’d better 
go straight up to my room,” went on the girl in a low voice. 
She stepped into the dark drawing-room. Where were the 
Count and Countess and their guest? 

“The visitor came late,” murmured the old servant. “They 
are still in the dining-room.” 

In a darkness made more dense by the moonlight outside. 


1 82 The Lonely House 

Cristina took Lily’s hand, and together they crept very 
quietly into the corridor. 

And then something curious happened. When they were 
about to go past the aperture which led into the dining-room, 
of which the door was wide open, the old woman stepped 
back and turned down the little oil lamp which lighted the 
corridor. Thus, for a moment, Lily was in darkness, while 
able to see clearly into the large, windowless room. 

The Count and Countess were sitting one on each side of 
their guest. He, alone, had his broad, bent, high back to 
the door. 

Coffee had evidently just been served. But what aston- 
ished Lily was the silence — not one of the three was speak- 
ing to the other. The Count and Countess, their heads bent 
forward, seemed to be listening intently — they had probably 
heard the sound of the drawing-room window, and of the 
door into the passage, opening and shutting. 

Suddenly, as if moved by a common impulse, and still 
absolutely silent, as was also their strange guest, they both 
turned and gazed straight at the open door. 

It was certain that they could see nothing, for Lily, stand- 
ing in the passage, was shrouded in deep shadow. Yet on 
each of the faces now turned towards the hidden watcher 
was an awful expression of suspense and acute fear — more 
marked in the Countess’s strong-featured countenance than 
in that of the Count. 

‘‘There is no one there; it must have been Cristina.” 

Uttering these words in a low tone, the Countess got up 
and shut the door, and, as she did so, the sleeve of Lily’s 
cloak was plucked by Cristina’s thin fingers, and she was 
gently and silently pushed towards the steep staircase. 

Lily crept upstairs, opened her bedroom door, and lit a 
candle. She felt excited and ill at ease. She wished that 
horrible old man would go away. What could he have said 
or done to make his host and hostess look like that? Had 
he some hold over Beppo Polda? Lily’s heart was beating 
with a strange sense of vague disquiet and — yes — fear. 


The Lonely House 183 

After she had got into bed she began to read one of her 
English magazines. Somehow she felt she could not go to 
sleep till the visitor had gone. 

She had been reading for about a quarter of an hour 
when there came over her that peculiar sensation of being 
companioned which seems to have no reference to sight or 
sound. She looked up. The Countess was standing just 
inside the door, with a glass in her hand. 

“Cristina has told me of this unfortunate thing that hap- 
pened to-night. I’m so sorry,” she said in a low tone, “that 
you have missed the gala performance! I feel sad, too, to 
think of my beloved Beppo’s disappointment. I’ve brought 
you up a glass of Sirop and water. I remember that you 
liked it the other day.” 

“Thank you so much. Aunt Cosy.” 

“Your Uncle Angelo is seeing off his Dutch friend,” went 
on the Countess, coming up close to her bed. She hesi- 
tated a moment. “He is — what do you call it in England? — 
yes, a rough diamond. So we were glad that neither you 
nor Beppo were here — Beppo is so very particular. Do not 
mention to my son that we had a visitor to-night.” 

Lily took the glass from the Countess’s hand and began 
sipping. Yes, it was certainly very nice; rather too sweet 
for English taste — like jam dissolved in icy cold water. She 
drank it all up, however. 

“Sleep well, dear. We shall have Beppo out here early, 
full of apologies. Do not spoil those pretty eyes by reading 
in bed.” 

As she uttered the word “bed” there came from outside 
the house, on the very steep and rough road which lead to 
the real door of the villa, the loud snort of a motor-car 
drawing up. Then the bell rang violently. 

The Countess was so startled that she dropped the empty 
glass she was holding in her hand, and it fell, shivered in a 
dozen pieces. 

She walked over to the bedroom door and opened, it, and 
at once Beppo’s rather high voice sounded up the staircase. 


184 The Lonely House 

He was evidently telling his father what had happened to 
their party. 

“It is only Beppo!” But the Countess still seemed ex- 
traordinarily disturbed. “I will go down and tell him that 
you are fast asleep, and that he must not make such a noise. 
I do hope he has not brought any strangers into the house! 
We are not prepared for visitors.” 

She shut the bedroom door, and a few minutes later the 
girl, who had turned very sleepy, heard the car starting 
again. 

When Lily awoke the next morning the strong morning 
light was filtering through the chinks in her dark curtains. 
She did not feel refreshed, for she had a bad headache. 
Perhaps the food at the Hotel Hidalgo had been too rich, 
and yet the other day she had felt all the better for a much 
more elaborate meal. 

She jumped out of bed. It was late — a little after nine 
o’clock. Putting on her dressing-gown, she prepared to 
wend her way to the peculiar spot she used as a bath- 
room; but when she got to the kitchen Cristina barred 
the way. 

“You cannot have a bath to-day. Mademoiselle. The 
Count bought some plants yesterday and put them into the 
bath. I dare not disturb them.” 

And then Lily noticed something which very much as- 
tonished her — yet it was such a little thing! She perceived 
that the old woman still wore the rather elaborate muslin 
cap and apron which she was accustomed to put on only in 
the evening, and only when there was a visitor to dinner. 
W’as it conceivable, possible, that Cristina had sat up all 
night? She certainly looked very wan and tired. Some- 
how Lily did not like to ask a question which she felt sure 
would not be answered truthfully, if what she suspected 
had happened. But something of what was in her mind 
perhaps showed in her frank face, for Cristina looked dis- 
tressed, as if caught out in a shameful action. 


The Lonely House 185 

“I will boil Mademoiselle an egg and make her a cup of 
tea,” she said nervously. 

“No, no, let me do that! But, first, I will go upstairs 
and manage as well as I can with that little basin.” 

Lily felt vexed. It was too bad of Uncle Angelo to have 
filled up the bath with plants, when he must know perfectly 
well that she used it every morning ! 


CHAPTER XIX 


T he last time a visitor had dined at La Solitude the 
guest had been Beppo, and Lily had helped Cristina 
to clear away the next morning, and then to wash up the 
beautiful china and glass which were only brought out on 
special occasions. 

She supposed that that would be her programme this 
morning, and she was glad to think there would be some- 
thing to keep her busy, for she felt strung up, excited, and 
ill-at-ease, curiously unlike herself. 

For the first time she felt an eager, instinctive desire to 
leave La Solitude. In vain she argued with herself that 
the kind of feeling which now possessed her was unreason- 
able and absurd ; the more so that since the arrival of Beppo 
at Monte Carlo both the Count and Countess had been very 
much nicer to her than before he came. In fact, Lily could 
not doubt that Aunt Cosy was becoming really fond of her! 
But it was very disagreeable to feel that she was always 
being spied on. Again she grew hot at the thought of Aunt 
Cosy reading her letter from Angus Stuart. Well she 
knew that the Countess, with her curious, narrow ideas would 
think it a very peculiar letter for a girl to have received from 
a young man! Beppo was right about his parents. They 
were odd, eccentric people, very difficult to know. 

It was in no happy or contented mood that Lily went 
downstairs, prepared to help Cristina clear away the remains 
of last night’s supper. 

Instead of going first to the kitchen, she walked along 
the short passage which led to the dining-room. There, to 
her great surprise she found that everything had already ^ 
been cleared away. Somehow — though that perhaps was 

1 86 


The Lonely House 187 

hardly reasonable on her part — ^this confirmed Lily’s belief 
that Cristina had not gone to bed last night. 

As she stood just within the empty, windowless room, 
there surged across Lily Fairfield an uncannily vivid mem- 
ory of the extraordinary old man who had been sitting last 
night at the round table now before her. 

What could he have said that had made the Count and 
Countess Polda look as they had looked when they had 
turned and gazed with such an expression of stony fear 
at the open door ? 

Again Lily asked herself uneasily whether that horrible 
old Dutchman — for so she now described him in her own 
mind — had any hold over Beppo? The Countess had said 
that the two men were engaged in some sort of business 
together, but Lily could not help remembering the almost 
insolent manner with which Mr. Vissering had treated Count 
Polda. And she now remembered another thing which struck 
her as very strange. This was that Beppo ’s name had not 
once been mentioned during that awkward three-cornered 
conversation in the dirty little smoking-room of the Hotel 
Utrecht. 

And then all at once there came over a Lily a most peculiar 
sensation — it was that of being companioned by the strange 
old man who had just been so strongly in her thoughts. 
She felt as if he were here, close to her ! It was a most 
disturbing and odious sensation, and with an overmastering 
desire to be quit of it, she almost ran into the passage. 

But the feeling persisted, and, turning round, she gazed 
through the open door into the room beyond. So vividly 
had she visualised just now the Count, the Countess, and 
the large, black, slightly bent back of their uncouth guest 
that she half expected to see them there! But of course 
she only saw the round polished table under the skylight, 
and the carved gilt chairs in their usual places against the 
tapestried walls. 

Feeling queerly shaken and frightened she went slowly 
on into the kitchen. 


1 88 The Lonely House 

“Is Mademoiselle going into the town this morning?” 
asked Cristina. 

She caught at the suggestion. A walk would chase away 
these morbid fancies and visions from her brain. Also she 
had several little things to do in Monte Carlo. 

“ril start at once!” she exclaimed. “Is there anything 
you would like me to get you in the town ?” 

But Cristina shook her head. 

Lily went quickly up to her room and put on her plain 
black coat and skirt. Then she took her cheque-book out 
of the only bag she ever kept locked, and caught up a pretty 
fancy basket, which had been a present from M. Popeau. 
He had bought it, full of fruit, at Marseilles, and she found 
it very useful when she did any little shopping either for 
herself or for Cristina. 

As she opened the door of her room, she heard her name 
called out in Aunt Cosy’s voice: “Lily, Lily!” The voice 
was low and urgent, and seemed very near; probably Uncle 
Angelo was still asleep. 

She looked up, a little startled. The bedroom opposite 
to hers, that which she knew to be Cristina’s bedroom — 
though as a matter of fact, she had never seen the old woman 
either enter it or leave it — had its door ajar, and through 
that door the Countess, clad in a dressing-gown, now 
emerged. She had a small, flat parcel in her hand. 

“I fear,” she said nervously, “that you will think what I 
am going to ask you to do is very strange, my little one. It 
is to go to the Hotel Hidalgo, and deliver this parcel into 
Beppo’s own hands. It is of great importance and value. 
I ought to have given it to him last night, but his coming 
was so unexpected that I forgot alb about it.” 

Lily was indeed more than surprised at this request, for 
by this time she had come to realise how very particular 
foreigners are as to what a girl may or may not do. And 
that she, Lily, should go to the Hotel Hidalgo, and ask for 
Beppo was just the sort of thing that all foreigners, Aunt 
Cosy included, would regard as a very improper thing to do. 


The Lonely House 189 

But she allowed nothing of what was passing in her mind 
to appear in her manner. 

“ It will be quite easy for me to go there on my way to 
cash a cheque!” she exclaimed, and held out her hand for 
the parcel. 

The Countess’s face cleared. Then all at once a comical 
look of dismay came over it. “Why, that melancholy black 
coat and skirt?” she asked. “I would not like Beppo to see 
you looking — what is that expressive word? — dowdy! Put 
on one of your pretty frocks, my dear.” 

But Lily, reddening, shook her head. Though she was, 
deep in her heart, sorry that she had not put on some- 
thing a little more smart than this old dress, she did not 
feel inclined to change just because she was going to 
see Beppo! 

“Perhaps I shan’t see him,” she said, smiling. “He 
mayn’t be up. It’s early, you know. Aunt Cosy.” 

“If you do not see him,” said the Countess sharply, 
“then you must bring this parcel back at once to me ! I 
thought I had made that quite clear, Lily?” 

“I’m so sorry ! I’ll be sure to deliver it to him.” 

And then, to Lily’s surprise. Aunt Cosy suddenly 
drew her into her arms and kissed her with real affec- 
tion. 

“I feel, my little Lily, as if you brought good for- 
tune to La Solitude ! God knows I don’t want to be un- 
fair to the Marchesa Pescobaldi, for she has been in some 
ways a good friend to my beloved son. But it is quite 
true that she has the Evil Eye ! Look at what happened 
yesterday. There was no reason why they should have 
had that breakdown in the mountains — depriving Beppo 
of a delightful evening with you! I am very, very glad 
indeed that the Marchesa is going home to-morrow. 
You are our true mascot!” 

Lily was touched and amused by these odd remarks. 
They had in them a thrill of reality, of truthfulness, 
which was -very rare in Aunt Cosy’s voice and manner. 


190 The Lonely House 

“I’m so sorry Beppo has to go away, too, to-morrow,” 
she said sympathetically. 

“We shall see — we shall see! Perhaps it will be pos- 
sible for him to stay on a little longer after all,” an- 
swered the Countess. But now she was speaking, or 
so the girl told herself, in her old, false, affected voice. 

Lily took the precious parcel, and put it at the bottom 
of her basket. Then she went downstairs. 

“Well, Cristina, is there really nothing you want me 
to do?” 

“I would like a pound of rice,” said Cristina hesitat- 
ingly. “And if you could get me such a thing, four 
fowls’ livers; that is all, my little lady.” 

After the girl had started on her solitary expedition, 
she debated with herself whether she should go off 
straight to the Hotel Hidalgo or take it on her way 
back. She finally decided to go there first. 

When about half-way down the hill she saw a woman 
coming slowly up towards her. But not till they had 
passed one another did Lily realise that the stranger 
was Mme. Sansot, who kept the Utrecht Hotel, and who 
had spoken with such suspicion and dislike of Mr. Vis- 
sering. She felt sorry she had not said good-day to her, 
in the courteous French fashion; still, it was probable 
that Mme. Sansot had not known her again in her 
severely simple black coat and skirt, and plain round 
hat. 

It took Lily longer than she had expected to walk to 
the Hotel Hidalgo, and it was nearly eleven o’clock 
when she found herself in the hall where she had waited 
so long and so impatiently last night. Feeling a little 
shy, she went to the bureau and inquired for Count 
Beppo Polda. 

The clerk, who had not been there the night before, 
looked at the young English lady with a good deal of 
curiosity. 

“I do not know if you can see the Count,” he said 


The Lonely House 191 

hesitatingly. “He is not down here, he is upstairs in the 
Marchesa Pescobaldi’s sitting-room. Does Mademoiselle 
wish to be shown up there?’' 

Lily was in a dilemma. “No, I do not think that will 
be necessary,” she said, rather uncomfortably; “1 have 
brought a parcel for Count Beppo from his mother. She 
wished me to give it to him in person. Perhaps you 
would let him know that Miss Fairfield would like to 
see him in the hall for a minute?” 

She spoke very decidedly, and the man scribbled 
something on a card and sent it upstairs. There then 
followed what seemed to the girl a very long wait. But 
at last, to her surprise, Beppo and the Marchesa ap- 
peared together. 

The Marchesa’s face was flushed. She looked both 
angry and disturbed. So did Beppo. As they came into 
the hall it was quite clear that neither of them recog- 
nised Lily. They were talking together animatedly. 
Then she heard the Marchesa utter an exclamation of 
surprise, and they both advanced towards her. 

“The Marchesa kindly suggests that you should come 
upstairs to her sitting-room.” 

Beppo tried to speak pleasantly and naturally, but it 
was plain to Lily that something had upset him very 
much. 

“Yes,” chimed in the Marchesa, “wc hope. Miss Fair- ' 
field, that you will come upstairs. It will be quite easy 
to arrange a private interview between you and Count 
Beppo. My husband and I will leave you alone to- 
gether. That is more suitable than that you should ask for 
a private room down here.” 

“But I only wanted to see Count Beppo to give him a 
parcel from his mother! I would have sent it up, but 
Aunt Cosy made me promise I would give it to him per- 
sonally,” exclaimed Lily. 

The Marchesa’s face cleared as if by magic. “Mfliat 
stupid messages hotel people do give!” she observed. 


192 The Lonely House 

‘'The message we received was that Miss Fairfield was 
downstairs, and desired to see Count Beppo Polda alone and 
secretly — I feared something dreadful had happened at 
La Solitude !’" 

“I knew perfectly well that nothing had happened,” 
said Beppo crossly, “you might have let me come down 
alone, Livia !” 

Lily blushed and laughed. “I said nothing about 
‘secretly,’ ” she exclaimed. “But I did say that I must see 
Beppo in person ; Aunt Cosy made me promise that I would.” 

She handed the parcel to Beppo, and then they all 
shook hands. 

“Do, please. Miss Fairfield, come back to luncheon 
with us here. It would give us great pleasure!” The 
Marchesa spoke with real, eager cordiality, and, as Lily 
hesitated, she added: “Do ask her, Beppo? She will 
perhaps do it if you ask her. We will send up a message 
to the Countess explaining that we have kept you.” 

“Yes, please do!” said Beppo. 

“Walk with her to the door, my friend, and put her in 
the way she wishes to go to do her shopping,” said 
the Marchesa kindly and pleasantly. ^T must run up to 
my husband again and tell him our apprehensions were 
not justified.” 

She waved her hand, leaving the two younger people 
together. 

“The Marchesa was afraid that one of my parents was 
ill,” explained Beppo awkwardly. “She has a very 
warm heart. I am so glad you are coming back to 
dejeuner” 

He kept fingering the parcel. “Mamma did not want 
an answer?” 

“No, I’m sure not.” 

“In any case, I will write my mother a note explain- 
ing that you are with us, and telling her that I will 
escort you back to La Solitude myself this afternoon.” 

They were out on the road by now. “How I wish I 


The Lonely House 193 

could come with you, Lily, and assist you in the shop- 
ping. But, alas! I must leave you here.” 

She walked off, feeling that foreigners were indeed 
inexplicable beings. 

Without the softening effect of her toque and veil, the 
Marchesa Pescobaldi had looked a good deal older this 
morning than she had done the other day, and there had 
been an unbecoming flush all over her face. 

Lily walked on, half glad, half sorry, that she was 
going to the Hotel Hidalgo to lunch. Glad she was not 
going back to La Solitude — sorry that she was to be the 
guest of the lady with the Evil Eye. In spite of herself 
Aunt Cosy's words about the Marchesa had impressed 
her. 

Monte Carlo is a very small place — though a place of 
large, clear spaces; so it was not perhaps as wonderful 
as Lily thought it was that she should run straight into 
Captain Stuart. 

“This is an answer to prayer!” exclaimed the young 
Scotsman, and though he smiled, he spoke as if he meant 
what he said. “I suppose it was presumptuous of me to 
hope that if you had received my letter you would have 
answered it?” 

“Please forgive me,” said Lily penitently. “But yes- 
terday was so full, I hadn’t a minute! And— and ” 

“Yes?” he said eagerly. 

“I’ll answer it now,” she said, “by telling you that I 
thought it was very kind of you to write it, and ” 

“And?” he repeated. 

“That I haven’t forgotten my promise! I’ll come at 
once to you if anything else happens to — to upset me 
again. Not that I expect anything to happen, but still, 
one never knows.” 

“I want you to do me a kindness,” he said abruptly. 
“Popeau has entertained me very often, and Fve never 
entertained him yet. Will you lunch with him and with 
me this morning? I’ve found quite a nice restaurant. 


194 The Lonely House 

Not as good as the Hotel de Paris, but quite a decent 
place. Do, Miss Fairfield? I shall take it as a real kind- 
ness — the act of a friend !” 

Poor Lily felt sorry indeed that she had engaged her- 
self to the Italian lady. 

“I wish I could,” she said ruefully. ‘'But Pve prom- 
ised to go back to the Hotel Hidalgo. The Marchesa 
Pescobaldi, who is a great friend of the Poldas, begged 
me to come, and I said I would. I don't see how I can 
get out of it now ” 

He remained silent. 

“You do understand, don’t you?” she said pleadingly. 

“Yes, of course I understand. But I’m sorry.” 

“I’m sorry too,” said Lily in a low voice. 

“Forgive me, Miss Fairfield. I’m an ill-tempered, can- 
tankerous fellow! But I was so disappointed — just for the 
minute. What are you doing this afternoon? May we 
call for you at the Hotel Hidalgo after lunch?” 

“I’m afraid Beppo Polda will expect me to go out with 
them,” said Lily. “I always used to think I ^had a firm 
character till I came to Monte Carlo, but now I’m just like 
wax; I do whatever I’m told. It’s awfully difficult with 
foreigners — they just make up their minds to do something, 
and one has to fall in with their plans.” 

“Count Beppo Polda is going away to-morrow, isn’t 
he?” asked Angus Stuart abruptly. 

“Yes, I believe he is.” 

“I’m glad he’s going away.” 

“Why?” asked Lily. 

“I don’t care for the fellow — that’s all.” 

“/ rather like him,” observed Lily. 

Captain Stuart lifted his hat and walked away. 

Then he suddenly came back. “As you can’t come to 
lunch, could you come to dinner to-night, and go to the 
Club?” He said these very simple words in rather a fierce 
tone, and Lily suddenly felt as if she must obey him. 

“I think I can manage that!” she exclaimed, “Though it 


The Lonely House 195 

is impossible to tell what Aunt Cosy will or will not allow 
me to do.’’ 

As she saw a look of annoyance, almost of anger, flash 
across the young man’s face, she added hurriedly: “Of 
course, I am now quite free to come and go as I like in the 
daytime, but I don’t know if ^he would consider it the 
thing for me to go out to dinner by myself. However, I 
can but try.” 

“Are you going back now at once to the Hotel Hidalgo?” 

“No,” said Lily frankly. “I am going to call on the 
English chaplain and ask him if he can’t find me something 
to do. There must be voluntary work of some sort where 
I could put in a few hours each day.” 

“But you came here to rest!” he exclaimed, in a dis- 
mayed tone. 

Lily laughed. “I feel quite well again now. But some- 
times La Solitude gets on my nerves. I can’t imagine how 
an energetic woman like Aunt Cosy can stand it as she does. 
She wouldn’t if she wasn’t so fond of her husband — they 
are wrapped up in one another. The real reason why she 
was so awfully angry with me about Mr. Ponting was 
because he was so upset. She really is a devoted wife!” 

She felt that the man walking by her side had a deep, 
she thought an unreasonable, prejudice against the Countess 
Polda. She wanted to show him that there was something 
good in Aunt Cosy, something better than he thought for. 

When they reached the chaplain’s house Lily held out 
her hand. “Good-bye — I hope only till to-night!” she ex- 
claimed. 

■Captain Stuart shook hands with her rather stiffly, and 
walked away — ^this time without turning round and coming 
back as he had done before. 

As to Lily’s proposed voluntary work, everything was 
settled in a very few minutes. She was told that there was 
a Convalescent Home just outside Monte Carlo, where they 
w^ould be more than grateful for occasional help. 

As she left the chaplain’s house Lily felt that she quite 


196 The Lonely House 

looked forward to this opportunity of doing some real 
work. It was true that the long, dull hours spent by her at 
La Solitude got on her nerves. Hence that strange, unnerv- 
ing experience in the dining-room this morning. 

It was to her an extraordinary experience to be living in 
a house into which there never came a book, or even a 
newspaper of any kind, excepting the queer little sheet 
published in Monaco itself ! That contained practically no 
news of interest to an English girl — ^though the long lists 
of visitors to the various hotels were studied carefully by 
both Count and Countess Polda. 

At first Lily had supposed by the way the Countess talked, 
that people would come in and out as they did in England. 
But, with the exception of the unfortunate George Ponting, 
and of her own two friends, M. Popeau and Captain Stuart, 
no strangers had been near La Solitude till last night, and 
then, as Lily knew quite well, the old Dutchman had only 
been asked because it was hoped that he would be useful 
to Beppo. 

It was strange how Mr. Vissering’s sinister, disagreeable 
personality haunted Lily. When she thought of him she 
hastened her footsteps, nervously afraid lest she might 
suddenly run into him. 

She wondered if the woman who kept the Utrecht Hotel 
had been on her way to La Solitude with a message from 
the Dutchman? Perhaps she was bringing a return invita- 
tion from old Mr. Vissering to the Count and Countess. 
If he had included her — and Lily somehow felt quite cer- 
tain that if he asked them he would ask her too — ^then she 
made up her mind to say quite plainly that she would not go. 


CHAPTER XX. 


A nd now, my good friends, you two had better 
take a turn in the sunshine, while I carry off Miss 
Fairfield to my sitting-room for a little rest and a little 
chat,” — so quoth the Marchesa Pescobaldi to her husband 
and to Count Beppo the moment lunch was over. 

The had had dejeuner downstairs, in the hotel dining- 
room, and it had been a pleasant meal. And yet all the 
time, while eating, listening, and talking, Lily had felt un- 
comfortable — very unlike her usual eager, interested, happy 
self. 

The Marchesa had come down to the dining-room dressed 
as if for going out, in the plainly-made black coat and skirt 
and elegant toque she had worn on the first occasion that 
Lily had seen her ; yet once more the English girl was struck 
by her beauty. She was evidently older than Lily had at 
first thought, but of her pre-eminent loveliness there could 
be no doubt. Among the many exquisitely dressed, and, 
in many cases, very pretty and attractive women there, 
the Marchesa Pescobaldi looked and moved like a goddess 
among mortals. 

By this Italian lady’s side the English girl felt very 
young, very insignificant, and yes, very badly dressed, in 
her three-year-old black coat and skirt, and plain white 
linen shirt. 

The other three talked a great deal during the meal. 
Even the Marchese, whom Lily did not really feel she knew 
at all, addressed a great deal of his conversation to her. 
Lily was told of a visit he had paid to England long years 
before, and of a delightful Derby Day experience, when he 
had won five thousand francs on an Italian horse, at ten 
to one odds! 


197 


198 The Lonely House 

Out of compliment to their guest, they all talked -English, 
which the Marchesa spoke extremely well, almost as well as 
Beppo. Her husband made up for his lack of knowledge by 
his somewhat elaborate courtesy to the young lady who 
was his guest. 

All at once, as they were sipping their coffee, something 
was said by Beppo which im.plied that he was not leaving 
Monte Carlo as had been arranged with his friends the 
next day. Perhaps he caught the look of surprise on Lilyas 
face, for he remarked quickly: 

“I have had news from Rome which makes it possible 
for me to stay on here for at any rate another ten days 
or so.” 

Lily wondered why he hadn’t told her this morning, but 
all she said was: “How delighted Aunt Cosy will be!” 

“I hope that you will not be sorry,” he exclaimed jok- 
ingly, and Lily, smiling, shook her head. She had ^certainly 
enjoyed herself since Beppo’s arrival at Monte Carlo. Also 
his presence had quite altered Aunt Cosy and made her 
much nicer. 

After they had finished had come the brief advice — nay, 
it was a command — from the Marchesa to the two men 
to go out and to leave her and Lily for a while by them- 
selves. 

“Your rest and chat must not last too long if we are to 
have the drive we promised ourselves,” said Beppo. He 
took out his watch. “I will come up and fetch you at a 
quarter past two. I hope that by then both you ladies 
will be ready to start?” 

“You need not come upstairs,” said the Marchesa quickly. 
“You can send us a message when you are ready. But pray 
give us a full half-hour! There’s nothing more disagree- 
able than motoring just after a meal.” 

A few moments later the lift was swinging Lily Fairfield 
and the Marchesa Pescobaldi up smoothly, almost noise- 
lessly, to the top of the hotel. 

As they stepped out of the lift the older woman affec- 


Lonely House 199 

tionately thrust one of ,her jewelled hands through Lily’s 
arm, in almost schoolgirl fashion. 

“Now that we are alone,” she exclaimed, “I want to tell 
you that I hope you and I, Miss Fairfield, are going to be 
friends! May I call you Lily? It is a sweet, a delightful 
name — pure and simple, as I am sure you are yourself. 
Will you call me by my name too, dear? I am called 
Livia.” 

“It is very kind of you to want to make friends with me 
— Livia,” said Lily shyly. “I have always longed to go to 
Rome some day.” 

“But, of course, it is because you will live in Rome 
that I want us to be friends,” said the Marchesa, rather 
quickly. 

As she spoke she withdrew her hand from the other’s 
arm, and, dpening a door, she stepped back to allow Lily 
to pass through into a very light, gay-looking sitting-room 
in which were many bowls and vases filled with exquisite 
flowers. 

“You see,” she exclaimed, “how both my husband and 
Beppo spoil me!” 

By far the most beautiful thing in the room was a big 
nosegay of white lilac, rising from a blue jar which was in 
itself a thing of beauty. 

The Marchesa went up to the lilac and sniffed at them 
delicately. 

“This was Beppo’s gift to me this morning,” she said. 
“He went out after seeing you, and got them for me — 
partly, I suppose, to console me for the fact that he will 
not be our escort back to Rome to-morrow !” 

While she spoke she went on moving about the room, and 
Lily suddenly told herself that her companion was like a 
beautiful, restless, untamed animal. Her wonderful eyes — 
they were like pools of light in her pale face — were darting 
this way and that. And again the English girl asked herself 
with a kind of apprehension whether the Marchesa had 
indeed the fatal maleficent gift, which the superstitious be- 


200 The Lonely House 

lieve may bring sorrow, and even shame, on those its 
possessor loves best? 

“I think we will sit over here,” said her hostess at last. 
“But first, my dear Lily, excuse me a moment. I will take 
ofif my toque, ior it is heavy. Even the best Parisian 
modistes have now lost the art of making a hat sit lightly 
on the wearer’s brow. I shall be more comfortable without 
* it. I have a headache. Yesterday’s adventure in the moun- 
tains was very tiring.” 

She left the room, and Lily, who had been sitting down, 
got up and walked, hardly knowing what she was doing, 
over to a big writing-table. One of the drawers was open, 
and she could not help seeing that within the drawer was 
the wrapper of the parcel she had brought for Beppo. 

The Marchesa came back. “We will sit in the window,” 
she observed, “so that while we talk we can enjoy the 
glorious view.” 

She pushed two easy chairs toward the bow window, so 
arranging them that while she herself was in the shadow, 
Lily’s face was in the full light. 

“And now,” she said, “sit down! We have not got very 
long. I think that Beppo did not like leaving us alone, eh? 
Men are like that. They detest realities, they do not like 
the truth !” 

Lily would have liked to combat this rather unkind view 
of the stronger sex, but her hostess was speaking with a 
kind of suppressed energy which made her feel she could 
not interrupt. 

“Yes, I am all for the truth! I do not believe in the 
French proverb, 'All truth is not good to say,’ and I know 
that English people always tell the truth?” 

She gazed with an eager, rather questioning, look into 
the girl’s open, guileless face. 

“Do not think me impertinent,” she said suddenly, “but 
before I go away there are one or two puzzles which I 
wish much to solve, and you, Lily, alone can help me to 
solve them. I beg you to believe that I shall be asking these 


The Lonely House 201 

questions in no spirit of idle curiosity, but because for many 
years past Beppo Polda has been” — she hesitated, and then 
she went on firmly — “the closest friend of my husband and 
myself. Can you wonder that I want you and me to be 
allies ?” 

She stopped speaking. It was clear she wanted Lily to 
say something — but what was there to say? 

“I know you have been very kind to Beppo,” said the 
girl earnestly. “Aunt Cosy spoke very gratefully of your 
kindness to him the day I first met you.” 

That was perhaps somewhat stretching the truth. But 
still, it was the truth. 

“My kindness to her son has not made the Countess love 
me, Lily,” said the Marchesa drily. “That woman hates me ! 
Again and again she would have liked to have done me an 
injury; again and again, not lately, but in the past, she has 
tried to detach Beppo from his best friends.” 

Lily began to feel exceedingly uncomfortable. She knew 
that what the Marchesa said was perfectly true — Aunt Cosy 
did not like the Pescobaldis. But that was none of her busi- 
ness. When all was said and done she, Lily Fairfield, was 
really a stranger to them all. 

The Marchesa was looking at her intently, evidently will- 
ing her to speak again. 

“Of course. Aunt Cosy is a very peculiar woman,” began 
the girl awkwardly. “She is so devoted to Beppo that one 
feels she would be jealous of anyone he really cared for. 
The other day I could not help feeling that she was actually 
jealous of dear old Cristina!” 

“She has reason to be jealous of Cristina,” said the 
Marchesa slowly, “for Beppo, very rightly, is devoted to 
that noble woman, who has given up her whole life to him. 
Do you suppose Cristina would stay one moment with the 
Countess were it not that it gives her the opportunity of 
being of service to Beppo — and of seeing Beppo?” 

Lily was amazed at the bitterness with which these words 
were uttered. 


202 The Lonely House 

“Still, after all, Aunt Cosy is Beppo’s mother, and she 
does love him with all her heart !” she said impulsively. No 
wonder Aunt Cosy disliked the Pescobaldis if they hated her 
so, and perhaps tried to set her son against her. 

“If you are wise,” said the Marchesa impressively, “you 
will see very, very little of the Countess Polda during the 
course of your future life. She is likely to live to be a 
very old woman, and she will wreck your happiness if you 
are not careful.” 

Lily stared at the speaker with astonishment and dis- 
comfort. What did this beautiful, sinister-eyed woman mean 
by saying that? 

“You know — or perhaps you do not know — ^that Count 
and Countess Polda are not really my relations,” she said 
at length. “I am only staying with them till February or 
March. They are very kind to me, but I don’t suppose, 
once I have got back to England, that I shall ever see them 
again.” 

“Surely Beppo is not going to live in England after he 
has married you?” exclaimed the Marchesa in an agitated 
voice. 

She started up from her chair, and gazed down into Lily’s 
upturned face. 

“Oh, Lily!” she cried. “Do not ask that of him! It 
would be a terrible sacrifice! Believe me, he would never 
be happy, however rich, in England. He’s an Italian through 
and through! I do not say this to you because of my own 
strong sentiments of affection for him, but because it is the 
truth. If you do not care for Rome, then live in Venice, 
or in Florence — nay, even Paris would be better than London, 
for Beppo!” 

Lily also got up. She felt exceedingly angry. 

“I am not going to marry Beppo.” She uttered the words 
very distinctly. “I cannot imagine what can have made you 
think such a thing? Why, I have only known him two 
or three days!” 

She felt not only very angry, but also disgusted. In 


The Lonely House 203 

fact, so violent was her emotion and her surprise that she 
found herself trembling all over. 

“Sit down, Lily,’’ said the Marchesa slowly. “And for- 
give me for what I said just now. I do not speak English 
really well; I ought to have said 'if you marry Beppo.’ It 
is, after all, a possibility — is it not ? It would be absurd to 
deny — surely you do not deny — ^that he is in love with you? 
That is why I said that about the 1 Countess.” 

But Lily, even in the midst of her agitation, could not 
help noticing that the Marchesa’s manner, as well as her 
voice, had changed ; there was no longer in her words the 
thrill of sincerity that there had been. 

“I’m sure that Beppo is not in love with me,” said the girl 
firmly. “He has not known me long enough to fall in love 
wjth me. He has a pretty, coaxing, kind of manner ” 

“He has indeed!” broke in the Marchesa sarcastically, 
but Lily was determined to finish her sentence. 

“ ^But his manner is just as pretty to Cristina as it is 

to me,” she concluded. 

She felt as if she were on the brink of tears. How dare 
this foreign woman insult her sol 

And then something else happened which amazed the 
English girl more than any of the other amazing things 
which had gone before. 

The Marchesa Pescobaldi sank gracefully upon her knees, 
and from that lowly posture she looked up into Lily’s face. 
She clasped her hands together, and there seemed to be 
nothing affected or even out of the way in the gesture. The 
surprised girl felt that now, again, the woman kneeling there 
was quite honest, quite sincere. 

“Forgive me!” exclaimed Livia Pescobaldi. “Forgive me, 
Lily! I see that I have offended and distressed you — that 
I have outraged your modesty. But you must remember 
that we Italians fall in love far more suddenly than do the 
cold-blooded English and the calculating French. I saw at 
once that Beppo was fascinated — also that the Countess 
Polda, who never acts without a motive, was quite willing, 


204 The Lonely House 

nay, desirous, that you and he should become good comrades. 
So I put two and two together, as you say in England. I 
see now that in this case my two and two made five — not 
four, as I thought! I apologise with deep humility for hav- 
ing said what I did.” 

As Lily still remained silent, the Marchesa went on plead- 
ingly. “Come, be generous! The English are generous. 
It is one of their finest qualities.” 

“Of course I forgive you,” said Lily, trying to smile. 
“Perhaps I was silly to be so — so put out! I know what 
you say is true — ^that foreigners fancy themselves in love 
very easily.” 

“Not foreigners only,” said the Marchesa, rising slowly, 
gracefully, from her knees. “Would you be surprised to 
learn, Lily, that an Englishman once travelled with me in a 
train for three hours, and that before the end of the journey 
he had asked me — nay, implored me — ^to marry him? He 
thought I was a young girl, yet at that time I had already 
been a wife six years !” She laughed mirthlessly. 

Lily exclaimed, “Oh, but you are different! You are 
so very, very beautiful!” She said the words from her 
heart, and they touched the older woman. 

“You are generous!” she said, “generous and kind, 
little Lily. And now that we are friends again, I want to 
ask you one more question. It is an indiscreet and im- 
pertinent question, but I ask you to answer me truthfully. 
You can do so more readily if, as you tell me, you are 
not really related to the Count and Countess Polda.” 

“A question about them?” Lily said hesitatingly. “I 
don’t expect I shall be able to answer it. I know Aunt 
Cosy and Uncle Angelo so very little.” 

The Marchesa went on as if she had not heard the 
interruption. 

“I want to ask you,” she said impressively, “how the 
Countess Polda makes her money? I say the Countess 
Polda, for the Count, as you can see, is a mere cipher.” 

“The Countess Polda does hot make any money,” replied 


The Lonely House 205 

Lily quickly and confidently. “Little as I know about them, 
I do know that!” 

The Marchesa’s question had shocked the girl. In some 
ways Aunt Cosy was not a nice woman, but she never 
pretended to be better off than she was. In fact, she often 
spoke of her own and the Count’s changed fortunes. It was 
strange indeed that one who was by way of being an intimate 
friend did not understand how really poor the Poldas 
were. 

“In one sense, of course, I know that they are poor,” 
said the Marchesa Pescobaldi impatiently. “Every time I 
come to Monte Carlo I miss something from La Solitude. 
We went into the drawing-room for a moment last night, 
and I at once saw that there was only one ebony cabinet 
where there used to two. Next time I come doubtless the 
mirrors will have gone! Yes, I realise that in a sense the 
Poldas are poor. But what I want to know is, where do 
they get the money with which they supply Beppo?” 

She looked very searchingly at Lily Fairfield. And, as 
in a flash, Lily remembered that strange, painful inter- 
change of words she had overheard between Beppo and his 
mother on the day of his arrival — how he had taunted her 
with not having sent as much money as he had expected. 
But for that she would have denied absolutely that Aunt 
Cosy and Uncle Angelo could ever send Beppo money. 

“You know, I suppose, that at irregular intervals they 
do send large sums to their son?” 

“No, I did not know that,” said Lily. 

She spoke in no very determined voice, and the Marchesa, 
looking at her flushed face, made up her mind that she was 
not telling the truth. 

“Well, Lily, whether you know it or not, it is so ! They 
have ardently desired, ever since I knew them, that Beppo 

should marry a very rich woman ” She stopped dead 

and looked straight into Lily’s eyes. But the girl’s expres- 
sion did not alter ; she evidently did not see into the speaker’s 
heart— or could it be that she was very, very cunning, with 


2 o 6 The Lonely House 

a marvellous power of keeping her own counsel? The 
Marchesa could not make up her mind. 

“Up to now Beppo has disappointed them,” she went on. 
“I have done my best— that I can swear! For, at any 
rate, the last three years I have done my best to find him a 
rich wife. Meanwhile, I do not say often, I do not even 
say at regular intervals, but now and again, Beppo receives 
from his mother a considerable sum of money. I have an 
important reason for wishing to know where that money 
comes from.” 

Again she looked searchingly at Lily, and at last the girl 
answered in a low, reluctant voice, “Honestly, I can’t tell 
you; in fact, I can hardly believe that they can ever give 
him what I would call a considerable sum of money. They 
live so very simply; they are so obviously poor.” 

It made her uncomfortable that she and a stranger should 
be discussing the Count and Countess’s private affairs in 
this way. 

“What does their son think himself?” she said at last, 
“surely he must know!” 

“Beppo has no idea at all,” said the Marchesa impressively. 

Lowering her voice a little, she asked suddenly, “How 
much money have you lent the Countess Polda since you 
arrived at Monte Carlo ?” 

“I have lent Aunt Cosy nothing!” cried Lily vehemently. 
“She has never asked me to lend her a farthing!” 

“Then where did she get the money she sent by you to 
Beppo this morning?” exclaimed the Marchesa imperiously. 

“She didn’t send me with any money this morning.” ex- 
claimed Lily. “She simply sent Beppo a little parcel.” 

“A little parcel?” mimicked the older woman. “And what 
do you think was in that little parcel?” 

“I don’t know,” said Lily, bewildered. 

“Then I will tell you. In that ‘little parcel’ were twenty- 
five thousand francs in Bank of France notes! Do you 
seriously tell me that you had no idea of the very valuable 
parcel you were carrying ? There was a letter in the parcel,” 


The Lonely House 207 

continued the Marchesa slowly, “and that letter I made 
Beppo show me.” 

She walked across to the writing-table, unlocked a long 
narrow drawer, and took from it a letter: 

“My dear Son, 

“Here is some of the money I promised you. I 

have more, but I am afraid to send it in this way. 

^"Your Mother.” 

There was a pause. 

“Then you had nothing to do with it? Will you swear 
that, Lily?” 

“No,” said Lily quietly. “I will not swear anything. 
My word is good enough. I had nothing to do with it at all. 
Surely Beppo does not think I had?” 

“I admit that the thought did not occur to Beppo. You 
see, he knows how often his mother has sent him money 
before. But it did occur to me.” 

“And I suppose you thought,” said Lily slowly, “that I 
would not have lent the Countess the money were I not 
going to marry Beppo?” 

“That is so. You see what passed in my mind exactly.” 

The Marchesa felt rather surprised. Then this young 
English girl was not quite as simple as she looked? 

There came a quick knock at the door, and Beppo, open- 
ing it, stood smiling before them. 

“I’ve just run up to say that the car has come round. 
Are you ready? Have you had your rest and your secret 
talk?” 

He looked sharply from the one woman to the other. 

“Yes,” said the Marchesa. “And I think that we are 
friends for ever!” 

As she turned to Lily there was an urgent appeal in 
her lovely eyes. 

Lily answered a little shyly. “Yes, I hope we shall be 
real friends — always.” 


2 o 8 The Lonely House 

And, oddly enough, in spite of the trying moments she 
had gone through, and in spite of the rather mixed feelings 
with which she even now regarded the Marchesa, she did 
feel that this strange woman would henceforth be more to 
her than a mere acquaintance. 

Even so, as she followed the Marche^ into the lift, as 
she answered more or less mechanically Beppo’s gay little 
remarks and questions, she felt bewildered and oppressed. 

Lily Fairfield had always lived among very straight- 
forward, simple people — people, too, who were conven- 
tional, who never indulged in intrigue. And now she felt 
that as long as she lived she would never forget seeing the 
beautiful Marchesa Pescobaldi sink down on her knees and 
beg so earnestly, so pathetically, for forgiveness. 

Many strange thoughts jostled themselves in the girl’s 
mind while the three made their rapid transit downstairs. 
Twenty-five thousand francs? A thousand pounds? She 
felt a little frightened when she thought of her somewhat 
lonely walk from La Solitude that morning. Aunt Cosy 
ought to have given her at any rate a hint that she was 
carrying something valuable! 

As to how the money had been obtained, she, Lily, told 
herself that, after all, the Poldas must have some fortune 
of their own, if not very much. Take her own case. She 
knew that now she was twenty-one she could, if she chose 
to do so, sell out certain securities from which came her . 
income. All that had been explained to her, very carefully, ^ 
by Uncle Tom, and by his solicitor, Mr. Bowering, who had ! 
charge of all the Fairfield family business. No doubt the ' 
Countess, whenever she thought Beppo hard up, sold out 
certain securities, thus making herself, of course, the poorer, 
but doing it for her son’s sake. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


I T was a wonderful drive. Beppo, who acted as chauf- 
feur, was skilful and daring — ^the unkind would have 
called him reckless. He took the old, almost worn-out, 
motor-car where most drivers would have feared to ven- 
ture, but Lily, physically, was very brave, and once or twice 
when the Marchese uttered a word of remonstrance she was 
surprised, and a little amused. 

She was still absorbed in what had happened, and in 
going over and over again every word of her strange talk 
with the woman who now sat, absolutely silent, by Beppo 
Polda’s side. 

Certain passages of the conversation remained far more 
vividly in Lily’s mind than others. Thus, while she hardly 
gave a thought to the question to which the Marchesa at- 
tached such tremendous importance — the question of how 
Aunt Cosy procured the money which she now and again 
sent or gave to her son — ^the English girl kept thinking of 
what the other woman had said about her, Lily Fairfield, 
and Beppo. 

She felt a good deal disturbed, and at the same time 
thrilled and moved. Was Beppo really in love with her? 
Certainly his manner was very, very different when they 
two, by chance, found themselves alone, even for a few 
moments. He then either became at once ardent and defer- 
ential — or coaxing, affectionate, and delightfully confiden- 
tial. 

This last had been his attitude during the drive he had 
taken her the day before yesterday, and it was the mood 
in which she liked him best. When he gazed with burning 
eyes into her face, the while paying her outrageous compli- 
ments, she felt shy, and very ill at ease. At such moments 

209 


210 The Lonely House 

he seemed to be trying an experiment — ^trying, that is, to 
rouse in her a feeling her whole being denied him the right 
to exact. And yet— and yet she did find him an exciting 
and stimulating companion, and she could not help being 
glad he was staying on in Monte Carlo. . . . 

All at once the motor began to slow down. They were 
going over the yellow, marshy piece of rough road where 
they had stopped during the first drive Lily had taken 
with Beppo and his friends. 

The Marchese exclaimed in his careful English: “It 
is a spring under the earth. Never dry here!’' 

Once they were safely across the marshy place, Beppo 
began driving along what was little more than a path cut 
through a big olive grove, which brought them, far sooner 
than Lily expected, to the front door of La Solitude. 

“There is no short cut around here that I do not know,” 
the young man said, as he helped her down; and almost 
at the same moment the Marohesa called out : “I cannot do 
myself the pleasure of coming in to see the Countess, for a 
friend is coming to tea. Will you return to dinner to-night, 
and then accompany us to the Club, Lily? 

“I’ve promised to dine with M. Popeau. But I believe” 
— she hesitated — “that he is going to take me into the Club.” 

“Then we shall meet once again — so ? I am glad !” 


To Lily’s relief. Aunt Cosy made no objection at all to 
her spending the evening with M. Popeau and Captain 
Stuart. In fact, she seemed pleased rather than otherwise 
that the girl should be going to do what must yet seem to 
Continental ideas a very unconventional thing. 

But perhaps because she now knew that her son intended 
to stay on for a little longer in Monte Carlo, the Countess’s 
manner was extraordinarily effusive. She seemed excited, 
unlike herself — indeed, her air of contentment, almost of 
joy, was in curious contrast to Cristina’s overcast counte- 
nance. The old woman looked nervous, unhappy, and ill at 


The Lonely House 21 1 

ease; and when fastening tip Lily’s pretty evening frock 
she gave a long, convulsive sigh. 

“Is anything the matter, Cristina?” 

“No, Mademoiselle. There is nothing more the matter 
than there has been for a very long time,” was the cryptic 
answer. 

At a quarter to eight M. Popeau called for Lily, and 
during the rapid drive down into Monte Carlo he observed 
suddenly : 

“The Countess does not look like herself to-night. I 
wonder what has happened to so excite and please her? 
Have you any idea of the reason?” 

He asked the question in a very peculiar tone, and Lily, 
surprised, answered: “Beppo is staying on in Monte Carlo. 
He may even come to La Solitude for a few days. That 
is quite enough to account for Aunt Cosy’s good humour.” 

“Are the Pescobaldi’s leaving to-morrow?” 

“Yes, and it’s because Beppo can’t get the room he wants 
at the Hidalgo Hotel that he is thinking of honouring his 
mother by paying us a short visit !” 

Lily could not help a sarcastic inflection coming into her 
voice. She liked Beppo very much, but she had no sym- 
pathy with his love of luxury, and of having everything 
“just so” about him. After all, what was good enough 
for his father and mother — to say nothing of herself — 
ought to be good enough for him! 

“So, so,” said M. Popeau thoughtfully. “The young 
Count is not going away?” 

Lily looked around quickly. M. Popeau spoke in a singu- 
lar, preoccupied tone. 

“I had occasion to-day to look through the private tele- 
grams which have arrived at Monte Carlo in the last twelve 
hours ” he hesitated, and then added slowly, signifi- 

cantly: “and I saw a telegram which I believe contained 
news which more than accounts for the Countess being so 
joyous to-night.” 

“Really?” said Lily uncomfortably. “How very strange.” 


212 The Lonely House 

Somehow it shocked her very much that M. Popeau 
should have the right to look at private telegrams sent 
through the Post Office. It seemed to her a very improper 
thing to happen! No doubt the telegram concerned the 
Countesses mysterious money matters — those money matters 
concerning which the Marchesa Pescobaldi had shown such 
intense interest and curiosity. 

“Do you know anything of such a telegram asked the 
Frenchman. 

He asked the unexpected question very gravely, and as 
Lily shook her head, a look of relief came over his face. 

“Pm glad of that!” he said. “Somehow I did not be- 
lieve that you had seen the telegram I have in my mind. 
But I regard it as almost certain that the Countess will 
show it you either to-night, or to-morrow morning.” 

Lily was rather taken aback by these mysterious words. 
But she regarded M. Popeau as being rather fond of saying 
mysterious things and of making mysterious allusions, so 
she remained silent; and soon she was far too much ab- 
sorbed in the amusing, brilliant scene in which she found 
herself at once a spectator and an actress to give any 
thought to what he had said. 

The Old Casino — as habitues of Monte Carlo have fallen 
into the way of calling it — has now been given over for 
some years to'' the ordinary tourist. Not so the so-called 
Sporting Club. To the Club any man can obtain admission 
who can prove that he is a member of a reputable club 
in whatever may be his own country. 

Lily was astonished to see the grandiose way in which 
everything was conducted there. All the diners in the 
restaurant of the Club wore evening dress, and the great 
rooms had a palatial splendour about them, while the deco- 
rations were in very much better taste than those of the 
rooms at the Casino. 

They had found Captain Stuart waiting for them, and 
after they had finished dinner the three went off and looked 
on at the already high play going on at the tables. 


The Lonely House 213 

The Club was far more Lily’s original idea of a famous 
gambling resort than had been the Casino. The people 
about her looked, too, of a different class from those she 
had seen in the other place. 

After they had strolled about from table to table, Mon- 
sieur Popeau now and again risking a sovereign or two, 
Lily saw Beppo Polda and the Marchesa Pescobaldi coming 
slowly towards her. 

When the necessary introductions had been made, the 
Marchesa began to talk eagerly to the Frenchman, whom 
she at once remembered having met before the war. 

Angus Stuart, with something like a scowl on his face, 
moved away from the two couples, but he was still near 
enough to hear Beppo Polda murmur: ‘T have never seen 
you in evening dress before, Lily — ^how lovely you look!’' 

“What a cad the man must be to say such a thing!” 
Angus Stuart almost said the words aloud. 

Lily laughed nervously. ‘T have never known anyone 
pay so many compliments as you do, Beppo! If any of my 
old friends heard the things you sometimes say they would 
think you were making fun of me ” 

“They would be fools! You do look beautiful to-night 
— so beautiful that I am not going to risk my luck at the 
tables. I should be sure to win, and if I won I should be 
in despair!” 

Of course Lily knew that Beppo meant to imply that the 
gambler who is lucky at play is unlucky in love. Again 
she laughed nervously, but in spite of herself she felt that 
there was something alluring in her companion’s deep voice 
and absorbed ardent gaze. 

“I can think of many good reasons why you should not 
play, Beppo!” 

She uttered the simple words coquettishly, and Angus 
Stuart bit his lips. This was a side of Lily Fairfield he had 
not known was there, and a sudden, passionate wave of 
anger and disgust swept over him. But instead of moving 
away, as he would have been wise to do, he moved just a 


( 


214 The Lonely House 

little nearer to the tall, distinguished-looking foreigner and 
the fair, flushed, English girl, whose delicate beauty was 
certainly set off to great advantage by her pale grey gown 
and quaint-looking evening cloak. 

The young Scotsman heard Beppo Polda say in a very 
low voice: “You know that from to-morrow I stay at La 
Solitude ?” 

“I’m glad of that,” Lily said smiling. 

“Is that really true? Your words make me so happy — 
happier than you know, Lily !” 

Beppo was gazing down eagerly into her face, and Angus 
Stuart felt a wild impulse come over him — if only he could 
knock the fellow down. 

“I’m glad you’re coming to La Solitude, because I know 
it will please Aunt Cosy. You know that I have always 
thought it unkind of you to have gone to the Hidalgo Hotel 
when she was expecting you to stay with her,” and this 
time Lily spoke quite seriously. 

“If I had known who would be at La Solitude I should 
have come there straight,” Beppo answered. 

And Angus Stuart again felt that hot, unreasonable rush 
of rage possess him. How dare this fellow talk in that 
intimate way to a girl of whom he had seen very much less 
than he, Stuart, had done? And why did Lily seem to 
enjoy those boldly turned compliments? 

Captain Stuart told himself bitterly that women were all 
alike; also that he had made a mistake — ^that Lily was not 
the kind of a girl he had taken her to be. What would have 
been more easy than for her to snub Count Beppo? He 
remembered how she had snubbed dear old Hercules 
Popeau on their long journey from Paris, when the French- 
man, presuming on his age, had been perhaps a thought too 
familiar in his manner; and yet she allowed this — ^this bold 
brute to say what he liked to her! 

“When I am at La Solitude,” went on Beppo in a low 
tone, “I shall be a good boy, and never come down to Monte 
Carlo! We will go up each morning to the golf club and 


The Lonely House 215 

have a round. In the afternoons I will take you drives 
among the mountains. I have already managed to hire a 
two-seater for a week.” 

Lily felt a little startled by his eager, intimate tones; 
also she had caught a glimpse of Angus Stuart’s face. 

“I shan’t be able to be idle all day long,” she said 
hurriedly. “I have asked the English chaplain here of he 
can’t find me something to do. I’ve already had a month of 
complete holiday, and somehow I find that idleness doesn’t 
suit me.” 

Beppo Polda looked extremely surprised and, yes, dis- 
pleased. 

“What nonsense!” he exclaimed. 

“Oh, but it isn’t nonsense.” Lily was speaking very 
decidedly now. “There’s a convalescent home for English 
soldiers near here, and I have already arranged to go there 
and help with some of the work. I’m quite looking forward 
to it!” 

“Does mamma know of this foolish plan?” asked 
Beppo. 

“No, I haven’t told Aunt Cosy yet. But she and I quite 
understand one another.” Lily looked up at him a little 
defiantly. “She knows that I am an English girl, and that 
I am used to doing what I wish — and to going about by 
myself.” 

At that moment the Marchesa Pescobaldi detached her- 
self from M. Popeau and came smilingly towards them. 

“I fear I must leave this charming scene,” she exclaimed, 
“for we make an early start to-morrow morning — my hus- 
band and I.” 

She bent forward, and, to Lily’s astonishment, kissed her 
warmly. “Good-^bye, my little friend!” she said in French. 
“Perhaps next time we meet in Rome? Do not forget what 
I said to you to-day. You and I are friends— 
happens — henceforth !” 

Lily felt a sudden feeling of recoil from the beautiful 
woman. She wondered — wondered — wondered whether the 


2 i 6 The Lonely House 

Marchesa really had the Evil Eye ? Feeling a little ashamed 
of herself, she made the curious little symbolic sign with 
her finger and thumb which M. Popeau had once told her 
was supposed to avert ill-luck. 

Beppo bowed ceremoniously. “A demain, Lily,” he said 
quietly. And then he escorted the Marchesa out through 
the mass of slowly-moving people. 

Lily watched them threading their way among the 
crowd; then she looked round, and felt a little bewildered 
and surprised to find herself close to a table where a big 
duel was going on between a small group of players and the 
bank. 

Suddenly she saw that M. Popeau and Angus Stewart 
were standing apart near one of the now closely-curtained 
windows. They were talking earnestly, and Lily would 
have been very much surprised had she known what M. 
Popeau had drawn Angus Stuart aside to say. 

“At the risk of ofifending you, I beg you to forget your- 
self, my friend. Believe me, she is in danger !” 

“I am not thinking of myself,” said Angus Stuart in an 
angry tone, “and I am trying not to think of her! If Miss 
Fairfield is in danger, it is her own fault. How can she 
allow that fellow to make love to her in that open, impu- 
dent way?” 

“She is a child, and, though intelligent, has no knowledge 
of life at all,” said M. Popeau slowly. “Let me remind you 
of the truest of our French proverbs: ‘To know all is to 
forgive all.’ 1 lay claim to know, I will not say everything, 
but a good deal that I do not feel I can say to you. I regard 
her as being in real danger of having her life wrecked 
by a number of cruel, selfish, and unscrupulous people, who 
care for her as much as I do for that piece of paper on 
the floor! I refer, of course, to the Count and Countess 
Polda; also, incidentally, to the Marchesa Pescobaldi, who, 
in this affair, is proving once again that even a heartless 
woman may be a sublimely unselfish lover. I did my best 


The Lonely House 217 

the other day to warn Miss Fairfield. I was, as they say 
in England, snubbed for my pains!” He laughed a little 
ruefully. 

“Seriously, Stuart, I have learnt something to-day which 
makes it quite clear to me that the Countess Polda — there 
is something sinister about that woman, I wish I could 
find out what it is — will make a tremendous effort to attach 
this English girl to her son. Should she succeed — I say it 
in all solemnity — ^that sweet child will soon be changed from 
a happy, joyous young thing into a grief -worn miserable 
woman! I speak of what I know. I am an old man, and 
I have become attached to you. 

He paused, and Angus Stuart muttered something under 
his breath. Was it, “You’re a good chap, Popeau”? 

The Frenchman went on, speaking much more slowly 
than was his wont. “You have your chance to-day. Re- 
member what Shakespeare says, ‘There is a tide in the 
affairs of men.’ That tide has come to you now. Take 
her back to La Solitude, my friend, and speak to her on the 
way. It is a fine night. Why should you two not walk up 
there, through the scented orange groves? I always look at 
a woman’s feet, and to-night I noticed that Miss Lily was 
shod in good strong shoes. I was surprised, but glad,” he 
concluded quaintly. 

“But what shall I say to her?” asked the other. 

M. Popeau looked at him shrewdly. 

“I do not press you to speak to her of your own feelings. 
That is a matter that every man must settle for himself. 
But I want you to put her on her guard. Beppo Polda is 
a charmer of women.” He saw that his words made the 
young Scotsman wince. 

“It is a great mistake when one is thinking of things as 
serious as is this thing, to avoid looking at the truth. Beppo 
Polda, I repeat, is a charmer. And, unfortunately, he likes 
and admires Mis^ Lily. I go farther, I say that she is 
Beppo Polda’s ideal of what a man’s wife should be. But 
does that mean that he would be kind or faithful to her 


2 i 8 The Lonely House 

after the first few weeks of married life if temptation came 
his wayf 

He paused — then answered his own question. “No, of 
course he would not be! He would always respect her, 
no doubt, but respect does not satisfy an Englishwoman, 
as it so often does a Frenchwoman or an Italian. Married 
to Beppo Polda,” concluded M. Popeau very solemnly, “our 
little Lily would wither like a flower put into a hot gas- 
oven.” 

It was a quaint, almost a grotesque, simile, but somehow 
it impressed Angus Stuart deeply. 

“From to-morrow,” went on M. Popeau, “Beppo Polda 
will be living at La Solitude. They will be together all day 
long, and he will make love to her all day long. His mother 
will help and abet him in every conceivable way pos- 
sible.” 

“But what am I to say to her? She will think me im- 
pertinent — and she will be right! I have no standing in 
this matter, Popeau — would to Heaven I had!” 

“In your place,” said Hercules Popeau impressively, “I 
would sacrifice myself for her.” 

“Heaven knows I am willing to do that!” 

“Are you really willing, my friend? Are you willing to 
put your pride in your pocket? Are you willing to tell her 
that you love her, and that it is because you love her, even 
without hope, that you are entitled to warn her against this 
man? Though the Scotch, as I have found out many a 
time during the late war, think themselves im every way 
superior to the English (I do not say that they are, or that 
they are not, but that is their conviction), still you and she 
are bound by a common language. Implore her, above all, 
to do nothing in a hurry. Do not let Beppo Polda go back 
to Rome engaged to. be married to Lily Fairfield.” 

The matter-of-fact words made the young man feel sick 
with apprehension, anger, and jealousy. Why, Popeau 
spoke as if the matter was already almost settled! 

“It has not occurred to you, I suppose, that Beppo Polda 


The Lonely House 219 

may be making love to her with no thought of marriage?” 
Angus Stuart said slowly. 

“I, confess that was my first conviction. When I spoke 
to Miss Lily a few days ago I thought Beppo Polda was 
simply amusing himself — nothing more ! But I have a very 
good reason for having changed by mind.” 

As he uttered these words he walked across to where Lily 
was still standing watching the play, and feeling, deep in 
her heart, forlorn, and a little depressed. 

“I have now to go oi¥ to see a friend on business at the 
Hotel de Paris, 'so Captain Stuart will escort you home. 
Mademoiselle.” 

M. Popeau spoke with a touch of rather unusual formal- 
ity, and Lily looked round at him surprised. “I am en- 
trusting you to the care of a good and faithful friend,” he 
went on in French. “Be kind to him to-night.” 

Stuart was now slowly walking towards them, and his 
face, which had been set in grim lines, softened as his eyes 
rested on Lily. 

The two walked out of the club in silence. She looked 
distractingly pretty, but also what Stuart had never seen 
her look before, that is, ashamed — ashamed as a child looks 
who knows she has done wrong, and yet, while longing for 
forgiveness, does not want to ask for it. 


I 


CHAPTER XXII 


W HEN they were in the open air they both stopped, 
and Lily said, almost in a whisper ; “How beautiful 
Monte Carlo is at night!” 

The now waning moon silvered the great white buildings 
and shed shafts of delicate, quivering light across the dark 
sea to their right. 

“I wonder if you’d mind our walking up to La Solitude?” 
said Lily’s companion suddenly. “Were they expecting you 
back early ?” 

“No; they didn’t think I could be home before eleven.” 
They made their way across the great open space in front 
of the Casino, and started walking along one of the deserted 
paths which led through the gardens. It was indeed a very 
fairyland of mysterious beauty. Through the high feathery 
trees could be seen the vast star-powdered sky. 

At last Angus Stuart began to speak, but there was some- 
thing cold, almost icy, in his voice. 

“I know I haven’t a right to interfere with an)^hing you 

do, still less to criticise your behaviour. Miss Fairfield ” 

“Why do you say that?” She felt sharply hurt and also 
angry. It did not look as if her companion was going to 
give her any opportunity of being “kind.” 

The man walking by her side was looking down into her 
upturned face with lowering eyes. She had not known that 
Angus Stuart could look at anyone as he was looking at her 
now. It was almost as if he hated her! Her lip quivered. 
She made a great effort over herself — she must not show 
him how pained she felt. 

“The truth is,” he said abruptly, “I couldn’t stand the way 
that fellow Beppo Polda behaved to you to-night. I thought 
him such a cad to talk as he did! Popeau has found out 


220 


The Lonely House 221 

that he hasn’t at all a good reputation in Rome. He makes 
love to every woman he meets!” 

While he was saying those words the speaker was cursing 
himself for a fool. This was not the way he had meant to 
speak. He had meant to warn Lily in quiet, measured ac- 
cents of the danger she was running. 

“M. Popeau is prejudiced against Beppo Polda,” She 
spoke with a good deal of spirit, though she felt on the 
brink of tears. ^‘As for his manner, a great many for- 
eigners have that sort of manner. Look what absurd com- 
pliments M. Popeau used to pay me on our journey from 
Paris! Beppo may have a bad reputation, but the Pesco- 
baldis are devoted to him. Fve made friends with the Mar- 
chesa — she’s quite a nice woman.” 

‘Ts she indeed?” There was a depth of wordless scorn 
in the Scotsman’s now steadied voice. 

‘‘Why, you don’t know her — you know nothing about 
her! You’re very prejudiced too,” cried Lily. 

“Perhaps I am prejudiced,” he said curtly. 

“You must not be offended with me. Captain Stuart, if 
I say that with regard to Beppo Polda you are also very 
unfair !” 

“If you think me prejudiced and unfair, it’s no use my 
saying what I meant to say,” he said coldly. 

“You can say anything you like to me,” said Lily im- 
pulsively. “After all, where’s the good of our being friends 
if we can’t say what we like to one another!” 

And then, to her surprise, Angus Stuart burst out: “Of 
course, I know that Popeau thinks I’m jealous. French- 
men are like that. But I’m not jealous — at least, I hope not ! 
It’s your true interest, and that alone, that I have at heart.” 

“I never thought you were jealous,” said Lily. Then she 
rather wondered at herself — she was generally a very truth- 
ful girl — for saying such a thing. 

He turned to her: “You may not have thought so, but 
— I’m not going to lie — and it’s true that I’m very, very 
jealous! I’m jealous of Beppo Polda — I’m jealous of your 


222 The Lonely House 

being fond of him — but far, far stronger than my jealousy, 
is my fear that you, Miss Fairfield ” 

He hesitated, and she said in a low tone: “What is it 
you’re afraid of?” 

“I’m afraid that you may be cajoled into making a very 
unhappy marriage,” he blurted out. 

“I don’t know why you should think such a thing.” Lily 
spoke in a hesitating, troubled voice. 

“It’s clear to me — as clear to me as it is to Popeau, who 
is a shrewder man than I am — ^that those people, the Count 
and Countess Polda, want you to become their son’s wife.” 

Lily remained silent. She asked herself agitatedly 
whether, after all, this might not be the simple truth. She 
could not but see that the Countess was doing everything 
she could to throw her and Beppo together. 

Captain Stuart hurried on: “The young man is a ne’er- 
do-well ; something of an adventurer, too, if Popeau’s in- 
formation is correct.” 

He felt surer of himself. He had feared Lily would be 
very angry with him, but he could see that, though deeply 
troubled, she was not angry. 

“The man leads a completely idle life! Sometimes he 
has plenty of money to fling about; at other times he ap- 
pears desperately hard up.” 

“The thing 1 do not like about Beppo,” said Lily, in a 
low voice, “is that he didn’t fight. I thinks that’s such an 
extraordinary thing!” 

And then Angus Stuart did a noble thing. He might 
have remained silent. Intsead, he said quickly: 

“You mustn’t blame Beppo Polda for that! Even Popeau 
admits that wasn’t his fault. He wanted to go to the front, 
but his mother and the Marchesa Pescobaldi were determined 
he should run no risks, and so they pulled strings. I think 
ill of the fellow, and I want you to be on your guard against 
him. But I don’t want you to think him worse than he is.” 

They had now left the gardens, and were making their way 
through the dark streets. 


The Lonely House 223 

Tears were rolling down Lily’s cheeks. 

“But what can I do?” she said at last. “Surely you don’t 
want me to leave La Solitude just because Beppo Polda is 
going to stay there for a few days? He’s not always as 
silly as he was to-night. When he and I are alone together 
he’s quite different, and much nicer.” 

She did not see the look that came over Atigus Stuart’s 
face, as he asked himsefl whether, after all, his words of 
warning had not come — as such words are so apt to come 
— too late. 

“Perhaps I’m on the wrong track. If so, forgive me! 
After all, Popeau may be prejudiced. But, oh, Miss Fair- 
field, don’t be in a hurry! Take time to consider whether 
life in Italy, as an Italian’s wife, would be really a happy life 
for you. I do feel that your whole future happiness may 
depend on what happens in the next few days.” 

Angus Stuart was speaking very agitatedly now. He 
thought he saw, at last, into Lily’s heart. He believed that 
after all she did care for Beppo Polda, and the bitterness 
which had filled his heart melted away into a great selfless 
pity and concern. She looked so very young — almost like 
a child, and even in the dim light about them he could see 
the tears in her eyes. 

“Look here!” he exclaimed. “I dare say the man’s not 
half a bad fellow. Try to forget everything I said!” 

“I don’t want to forget what you’ve said,” exclaimed 
Lily — and then she went on, hesitatingly: “Sometimes — to- 
night,. for instance — I feel as if I almost hated Beppo ; and 
then, when he and I are alone together, and he speaks so 
kindly of his people, and of dear old Cristina, then I tell 
myself that he is nice, after all !” 

“Still,” said Angus Stuart slowly, “you do enjoy his 
beastly compliments.” 

Lily blushed a little, and sighed. “Every girl likes having 
pretty things said to her. I sometimes think that English- 
men don’t say enough pretty things. Captain Stuart. I 
can’t imagine any Englishman paying his mother or old 


224 The Lonely House 

nurse the sort of compliments Beppo pays Aunt Cosy and 
Cristina!” 

“I wish a Scotsman could say the sort of thing you like — 
the sort of things Beppo Polda said to-night,” he muttered 
ruefully. 

“Oh, I shouldn’t like you to say such things at all I” Lily 
smiled up into his face. 

They were now engaged in the lonely road leading to the 
heights above Monte Carlo, and they seemed alone in a 
moonlit enchanted world of beauty, and exquisite night 
scents. They walked on in silence for some moments. And 
then Lily just touched her companion’s arm. 

“I am grateful to you,” she whispered, “for having said 
what you did to me to-night! And I want to tell you that 
I’ll follow your advice. I’ll — I’ll snub Beppo! I won’t let 
him say the sort of things that you think are horrid — and 
which perhaps are horrid.” 

There was a tremor in her voice. And all at once he 
turned on her. Why shouldn’t he follow Popeau’s advice? 
Why not burn his boats? 

“Look here!” he exclaimed. “I don’t see how you can 
help knowing — ^knowing ” He stopped. 

“Yes?” whispered Lily. “Knowing what?” 

“That I love you! I dare say it seems absurd, consider- 
ing what a little we’ve seen of one another, and how very 
seldom I’ve had a chance of talking to you alone. But 
there it is ! I suppose I fell in love with you at first sight 
— in fact I know I did; — in that big, grey, dirty Paris station. 
I’ve been a queer, lonely chap — a bit cantankerous, too. But 
there it is! I’ve never cared for anybody else. And I 
don’t mind how long I wait — if there’s the slightest chance 
that in the end I’ll succeed. I oughtn’t to speak like this now, 
for your people don’t know anything about me.” 

He stopped speaking for a moment, then he began, 
again in a slow, thoughtful voice: “I’ll tell you what 
I’ll do ” 

Lily felt as if she must burst out laughing and crying 


The Lonely House 225 

together. She had never thought that this was the way a 
man proposed. 

‘‘Til write out this very night an account of myself. I’ll 
say where I went to school — what my people were like — 
what I’ve done-— and what I hope to do. And then I’ll 
ask you to send it to your uncle — I mean to that man who’s 
exactly like your father. Tell him I don’t mind how long 
I wait, if only I can win you for my wife ! If it’s true that 
you’re not thinking of marrying Beppo Polda then — do give 
me a chance!” 

He spoke in a quick, urgent, mufUed voice, and all at once 
he turned, and took hold of her two hands. 

“I can’t expect you to like me yet — you don’t know me 
well enough-^” 

And then Lily suddenly said in a very low, clear voice: 
‘T do know you well enough!” 

She was shaking all over. It had been a terrible effort 
to her to say those six words, but somehow she felt that 
she ought to say them. 

He dropped her hands. 

‘T say,” he said earnestly, ^‘you’re not playing with me? 
Do you really mean that? Will you allow me to hope that 
in time I shall be able to persuade you to do more than 
like me?” 

He bent forward and then, after he had heard her whis- 
pered “Yes,” he suddenly understood. 

In less than a moment his arms were round her, he was 
straining her to his heart, and raining kisses on her face. 
Then — but Lily did not know it — he did a rather fine thing. 
He drew back. 

“Forgive me!” he exclaimed. “That was wrong! But 
a man can’t always do right. For — and I’m quite 
serious, mind you — we’re not to consider ourselves en- 
gaged till you’ve written to your uncle, till you know 
a little more about me, till — till” — he could not say “till 
you do a little more than like me!” for he knew now 
that she did. 


226 The Lonely House 

They walked on a little way in silence, both extraordinarily 
happy, yet both feeling extraordinarily shy. 

“Tm not a bit jealous of Beppo Polda now,” he said sud- 
denly. “But, oh, darling — darling, I wish that instead of 
talking you up to La Solitude I was taking you — well, any- 
where else. Somehow I’m afraid of that place! I — I simply 
hate the Countess Polda !” — ^he spoke between his teeth. “Do 
you remember that first visit that Popeau and I paid there, 
when she forced me to tell her all sorts of things about my- 
self ?” 

“I thought you managed very well,” said Lily, smiling 
in the darkness. “I shall never forget your saying you felt 
as if you’d known me a lifetime !” 

“That was quite true,” he said seriously. “And, after 
all, there is a limit to the impudent questions one is obliged 
to answer truly. I saw her, without her seeing me, a few 
days ago — I suppose the day that she and Count Polda came 
down into Monte Carlo to meet their son — and I thought she 
had such an evil face, a face, too, full of such tremendous 
determination! I am certain she wants you to marry her 
son. Must you stay on at La Solitude ?” 

“I fear I must ” Lily hesitated. “But — but — ” she 

did not know what to call this man who now meant all 
the world to her, so she called him by that little English word 
which may mean so much or so very little. “I promise you, 
dear,” she said, “that I won’t allow Beppo Polda to flirt 
with me. I am ashamed of the way I went on to-night; 
I oughtn’t to have done it ! But somehow something seemed 
to draw me on, in spite of myself.” 

He took her hand and held it tightly in his, and, like two 
happy children, they walked on — Lily in a maze of surprise 
and of mingled feelings, in which perhaps comfort was the 
one which predominated. It was such a comfortable thing 
to feel that sh’e had a friend as well as a lover, in the strong, 
dependable man now walking by her side. She had felt 
terribly lonely sometimes — now she would never feel lonely 
any more. 


The Lonely House 227 

“Look here!” he said suddenly. “I can absolutely de- 
pend on you to tell me everything? I gather you had a 
pretty bad time with that woman after you found that poor 
chap’s body?” 

“Yes,” said Lily in a low tone. “I had a very, very bad 
time. She terrified me. I had never seen anyone so angry.” 

“If anything of the kind happens again will you manage 
to get a message sent to me?” 

“Nothing of the kind is in the least likely to happen 
again, and don’t feel worried about the other thing; I think 
I can manage Beppo.” 

He winced a little at the confidence with which she said 
those simple words. 

They were now standing on the little clearing just below 
the gate of La Solitude. 

“Please don’t come up to the house,” she said nervously. 
“Let’s say good-bye here.” 

And then — for, after all, though a man of honour, he was 
also a man of flesh and blood — Angus Stuart took Lily Fair- 
field in his arms again, and kissed her — kissed her — ^kissed 
her ! 


CHAPTER XXIII 


W ITH her whole being in a whirl of new sensations 
and feelings, the happy girl made her way up slowly 
through the plantation of olive and orange trees. More 
than once she stopped walking, and pressed her hands to her 
temples. Was it, indeed, she, Lily Fairfield, who had just 
gone through that wonderful experience with a man of whom 
she had never heard a month ago, and yet whom she now 
knew would be henceforth the whole world to her ? 

Like most girls brought up entirely with older people, 
there was something at once childlike and mature about 
Lily Fairfield. She realised dimly that only an exceptional 
man, one with a very high sense of honour, would have said 
to her what he had said to-night. He had not tried to rush 
her into an immediate marriage as almost any young man 
who cared for her as he seemed to care would have done. 

As to his having taken her in his arms and kissed her — 
Lily loved him all the more for that. It showed her that 
he was human after all! Perhaps it was the training of 
fastidious, old-fashioned Aunt Emily — perhaps it was some- 
thing in the girl’s own nature — but ever since she had be- 
gun to think of such things, which was not so very long ago, 
Lily had always thought of a kiss between a man and a 
woman a sacred thing. No man had ever kissed her till 
Angus Stuart’s lips had first trembled on her lips a few 
minutes ago. 

Oddly enough, there came to her to-night a memory of 
the sudden repulsion she had felt for a young man, whom 
otherwise she had thought a very jolly kind of boy, when 
he had once observed laughingly, perhaps a trifle boast- 
ingly, that he only cared to go to a dance where there was a 
conservatory in which he could kiss the girls! 

228 


The Lonely House 229 

Yet it was a comfort to feel that she need not consider 
herself “engaged” to Angus. It would take a long time 
for her letter to reach Uncle Tom, and for his letter to reach 
her, and then she would be within sight of the time when 
she was due to leave La Solitude. 

Perhaps because of what Angus Stuart had said, as she 
drew nearer and nearer to the house, there came over her 
an overwhelming desire to go away as soon as possible from 
La Solitude. With the easy generosity of youth she asked 
herself why 'she shouldn’t simply hand over to Aunt Cosy 
the money which she would have had to pay had she stayed 
on till March? It was the five pounds a week Aunt Cosy 
valued, not her company — ^though that the Countess was 
fond of her in a way, was clear to the girl. 

How strange to think that a dwelling-place which had 
brought her such immeasurable happiness — for had she not 
come to La Solitude she would never have met the man 
who had just left her — yet filled her with a curious, sense of 
foreboding and discomfort. 

As she emerged on to the lawn and saw, in the bright 
moonlight, the long, low house, there came over her just 
the feeling she had had this morning — a feeling of acute, 
unreasoning discomfort — and again with that disquieting 
sensation seemed to be coupled the odious personality of 
the old Dutchman, Mr. Vissering. Perhaps because of 
that silent, fleeting meeting with the woman who kept the 
Utrecht Hotel, she had thought of him several times that 
day, half fearing she might come across him. 

Now, to-night, the thought of him was overwhelmingly 
present, though she had no reason to suppose that she would 
ever again be brought face to face with his strange, sinister, 
and, yes, insolent personality. She hoped with all her 
heart that Beppo was in no way in his power. 

She walked up on to the terrace and knocked lightly on 
one of the drawing-room shutters, for so she had arranged 
to do with Cristina. What seemed a long time, perhaps five 
minutes, went by, and she knocked again, a little louder 


230 


The Lonely House 


this time. And then, at last, she heard the window within 
being opened, and the shutter unbarred. 

It was Aunt Cosy who let her in — Aunt Cosy, who so 
very seldom sat up after half-past nine. 

“I thought Beppo would have returned with you,” said 
the Countess, and there were both regret and relief strug- 
gling in her voice. “I have been listening for the sound 
of a motor, though I did not expect you to be so soon back, 
dear child.” 

Lily felt rather guilty, nervously afraid lest Aunt Cosy 
should cross-examine her as to how she had got home, and 
who had brought her back. She told herself desperately 
that if she was thus questioned she would take a leaf out of 
Aunt Cosy’s own book and say that M. Popeau had brought 
her back! 

But Aunt Cosy asked no questions. Instead she only 
said in a preoccupied way: “And now we will go to bed.” 

“I’ll go to the kitchen, and get my candlestick,” Lily 
said, but Aunt Cosy stopped her with a peremptory: “I 
have your candlestick here,” and sure enough, to the girl’s 
secret surprise, she saw that there was a candlestick put 
ready for her on Uncle Angelo’s card-table. 

After they had made their way up the narrow, steep 
staircase together, Lily turned to receive Aunt Cosy’s usual 
good-night embrace, but the Countess exclaimed: “I will 
come into your room for a moment, my dear!” — and when 
they were inside the door, she shut it quietly. 

“I have a piece of news for you,” she said slowly; “it 
is bad news, Lily.” There was a very curious look, cer- 
tainly not a look of sadness, on the speaker’s face. “I did 
not wish to spoil your pleasure this afternoon, or I should 
have told you then,” she added. 

Every vestige of colour drained itself from Lily’s face. 

“Has anything happened to Uncle Tom?” she asked in 
a low voice. 

The other shook her head quickly. “Forgive me, dear 
child! Of course your thoughts naturally fled to your 


The Lonely House 231 

adopted father. No, no! As far as I know, Tom Fairfield 
is quite, quite well. No — the news I have to break to 
you came in a telegram after you had gone this^ morning. 
I felt sure you would not mind my opening the telegram?” 

She paused. 

Lily stared at her. A telegram for her? But there was 
no one who could have anything to telegraph to her about, 
excepting Uncle Tom! 

“The telegram,” went on Aunt Cosy slowly, impres- 
sively, “was to tell you that Miss Rosa Fairfield is 
dead.” 

“Cousin Rosa dead?” repeated Lily mechanically. 

She was very much surprised and yet Uncle Tom and 
Aunt Emmeline had always been expecting Miss Fairfield’s 
death, talking about it as if it was likely to happen soon, 
for the old lady was much over eighty. 

Yesterday, nay, this morning, the news would have ex- 
cited and moved her, but what was Miss Rosa Fairfield’s 
death compared with what had happened in the last hour 
— to that great coming of love which was still absorbing 
her whole being? 

“Here is the telegram.” 

The girl put down the candle which she had still in her 
hand, and opened out the piece of paper. Yes, there it was 
in printed characters: “Miss Rosa Fairfield died yesterday 
morning. You are her residuary legatee, but no necessity 
for you to return. Letter follows. — Arnold Bowering.” 

Lily stared down at the words. 

“Who is Arnold Bowering?” asked Aunt Cosy. 

“He is our friend, as well as Cousin Rosa’s solicitor. 
I’ve known him all my life,” answered Lily slowly. 

“You do not look particularly excited,” said the Countess 
“I suppose there is no doubt about your heritage? I do 
not quite understand the. term, ‘residuary legatee.’ Can that 
mean that Miss Rosa only left you what will be left after 
some other person has been paid?” 

The words can hardly be said to have penetrated Lily’s 


232 The Lonely House 

brain, so, “I really don’t know,” she answered vaguely. 
“To tell you the truth. Aunt Cosy, I don’t care much!” 

There had come over her a feeling of keen regret that she 
had not gone to see Cousin Rosa before leaving England. 
There had been some talk of her doing so, but the old lady 
had not seemed really anxious to see her. Lily wondered 
if she ought to have told Angus about Miss Rosa? Some- 
how she was glad she had said nothing about it. There 
would be plenty of time to tell him when next they met — 
if they had nothing more entrancing, more exciting to talk 
about 

“We will wait till this Mr. Bowering’s letter comes, and 
we will then judge whether it is necessary or not for you 
to procure mourning,” said the Countess thoughtfully. 

Lily felt a slight thrill of disgust run through her. “I’m 
already in mourning,” she said a little coldly, “for Aunt 
Emmeline.” 

“Yes, but if you’ve been left a fortune by this old lady, 
then surely you should wear all black for at least a month ?” 
observed Aunt Cosy reprovingly. “I should have thought, 
Lily, that your own good heart would have told you 
that.” 

Poor Lily! It was with difficulty that she prevented 
herself from bursting out laughing. What an unconscious 
hyprocrite Aunt Cosy was! 

She longed to be alone, longed intensely to be free of 
what she felt to be such an alien presence as that of the 
woman who was still standing there, before her. 

“Well, dear child, I will now say good-night. But before 
I go I should like to see you drink up your Sirop. As a 
matter of fact I require the glass. We are short of glasses, 
for I broke mine to-day. If you will drink up your Sirop I 
will take the glass away and wash it, and then I will have it 
for myself. I generally drink a glass of water during the 
night.” 

Lily was not particularly thirsty, but she would have 
done anything at this moment to get rid of Aunt Cosy. 


The Lonely House 233 

So she took up the glass which Cristina had left by her 
bedside. 

And then there came in Uncle Angelo’s familiar fretful 
voice the words “Cosy ! Cosy !” 

The Countess turned quickly and, leaving the door open, 
went down the passage. 

Lily rushed over to her tiny basin and ewer. Breathlessly 
she poured the Sirop into the ewer. Why should she drink 
this rather sweet, sickly stuff if she didn’t feel she wanted 
to do so? 

She felt a little bit ashamed of her sly act, but Aunt 
Cosy’s ways induced slyness in those about her. 

She went to the door and held out the glass ; it was taken 
quickly from her hand, and then Lily shut the door with 
considerable relief. 

She hesitated a moment — and then something, she could 
not have told you what, made her turn the key in the lock. 
It was the first time she had ever done this at La Solitude, 
or indeed anywhere else. 

She undressed. She said her prayers. She got into bed. 
She blew out her candle. But try as she might she could 
not fall asleep! She was extraordinarily excited — at once 
happy and oppressed. 

After what seemed to her a very long time, she began 
to feel that strange, intangible feeling of drowsiness which 
heralds sleep. And it was at that moment that she realised 
that the curtains of her window were not drawn. It was 
a small matter, but it surprised her, for Cristina was very 
exact and particular as to such things. 

Ought she to jump up and draw the curtains, together? 
No, she felt too sleepy to do so. 

And then, • instead of falling into the healthy, dreamless 
sleep to which she was accustomed, Lily slid off into dream- 
land; and in her dream she was far, far away from La 
Solitude and Monte Carlo. She was back at The Nest at 
Epsom. She was telling Aunt Emmeline about Angus 
Stuart, and Aunt Emmeline was looking at her with a 


234 


The Lonely House 


rather anxious, troubled look. At last, to her great joy 
and infinite relief, she heard the measured, slow, kindly, 
familiar tones: 

‘•From what you tell me, Lily, I think he must be a very 
worthy young man. Your account of him reminds me 
of what your Uncle Tom was like, when I first met him.” 

And then suddenly Lily woke up. For a moment she 
actually thought that Aunt Emmeline was here, in the room ! 
She seemed to hear the kind, loving, rather prim words 
echo in her ear. 

She was not frightened, yet all her senses were sharply 
on the alert, and all at once the stillness, the intense, brood- 
ing stillness which always hung over La Solitude at night, 
was broken by some stealthy sounds rising from the yard 
which was just below her window. 

Lily sat up in “bed and listened intently. Even now the 
sounds she heard were less real to her than had been Aunt 
Emmeline’s voice in her dream. Perhaps she was still 
dreaming? But no, for again she heard those curious stuff- 
less sounds. 

She began to feel a little alarmed. Who could have 
gained access to that narrow yard below? True, there was 
a big gate which gave on the rough road outside, but it was 
a gate which, as Cristina had told her, was hardly ever 
opened. 

She jumped ^out of bed, and, going to the window, pushed 
it open, and leant cautiously out. As her eyes grew ac- 
customed to the starlit atmosphere, for the moon had set, 
she thought she could just see that to the right the great 
gate was open to-night. What an amazing and extraor- 
dinary thing ! She listened intently, but the stuffless sounds 
had ceased. So she got into bed again. 

After w'hat seemed a long time, she again heard the same 
sounds. Perhaps some animal had wandered in from the 
mountainside above? Yes, that was what it sounded like 
— as if some goat or donkey, finding the gate open, had 
wandered in, hoping to find something to eat or drink. It 


The Lonely House 235 

was as if some biggish creature was dragging itself along 
over the uneven brick floor of the yard. 

There was only one door giving into the house that side, 
the door which led to the kitchen, and which was always 
kept locked. Only unlocked, indeed, when Lily herself 
went into the yard to the outhouse to have her bath each 
morning. That door led only into the yard, it was not 
used as a back door, as it would have been in England. 

Lily fell asleep again; and she could not have told you 
whether it was a few moments or an hour, later, that she 
was awakened, this time by the loud, unmistakable sound 
of the gate in the yard below being swung to. 

What an extraordinary thing! She jumped out of bed. 
This time she rushed to the window, and craned her head 
out to see in the light misty haze of earliest dawn that the 
gate was shut now, and that everything below looked as it 
always did. 

It must have been a human being, not an animal, which 
had penetrated into the yard during the night. 

She pulled the curtains together and fell asleep again, 
till she heard Cristina’s light step in the passage. Then it 
wasn’t night any more, it was early morning now? Why 
did poor Cristina get up so early — perhaps to go to the first 
Mass up at the chapel? There was a priest staying near 
there who had the strange habit of saying Mass at five 
o’clock. Cristina often got up to attend it. Lily always 
knew, for the old woman looked so dreadfully ’tired on the 
days when she had done this. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


T here are moments in life, not, alas! very many 
in number, when everything about us takes on a won- 
derful radiance, and when all that happens seems merged 
in joy. 

All through Lily’s curious, disturbed night there had 
shone the golden flame of her love for Angus Stuart, and of 
his love for her. It was that miracle which filled the whole 
of her being and absorbed all her thoughts. When she got 
up the next morning she scarcely remembered that poor 
Cousin Rosa was dead, and that she was now a very rich 
young woman. 

“The bath is quite ready,” said Cristina eagerly. “And I 
have already emptied some buckets of hot water in it for 
Mademoiselle.” 

With her hand on the key of the door which led into the 
little yard, Lily turned round; “Oh, Cristina, something 
so strange happened in the night. I’m quite sure that the 
big gate outside here was opened, and that someone came 
in. I heard such curious noises on two separate occasions, 
but though I looked out of the window it was too dark for 
me to see anything.” 

The old woman looked apprehensively towards the door 
which gave into the house. 

“There are many bad characters about,” she murmured. 
“It makes the Count nervous. Do not say anything about 
this to him. Mademoiselle, or to the Countess. They would 
only be angry with me.” 

“Angry with you?” repeated Lily, surprised. 

“It is possible that I left the big gate undone. The only 
time that gate is open is when they are bringing in the wood 
and the charcoal for the fire. Some was brought a day or 

236 


The Lonely House 237 

two ago. I may have left the gate unlocked,” she repeated, 
in a troubled voice. 

The girl hurried out and ran across the yard. The 
outhouse had evidently been tidied up by Cristina that 
morning. Somehow it looked different. 

Lily glanced round.' What was it that made this queer 
little place look other than usual? Then all at once she 
knew — ^the curious-looking trolley, which as a rule stood 
just opposite the door, was now pushed back alongside the 
further wall. No doubt it had been used yesterday by Uncle 
Angelo when moving the plants he had bought two days 
ago to the garden. 

And then, all at once, it struck Lily that it must have 
been Uncle Angelo who left the gate unlocked. Every time 
that trolley was moved out from the outhouse Tbe gate 
must of course be unlocked to let it through. 

The water in the high, narrow zinc bath was still very 
hot, and Lily did not want to go back into the house to get 
a pailful of cold water. So she walked about, stamping her 
little feet to keep warm, for it was rather cold in this 
shadowed, outdoor room where no sun ever penetrated. At 
last she went close up to the trolley — she could think of no 
better name for it — and then she noticed that the big bicycle 
wheels were splashed with yellow mud. 

And then, all at once, there rose before her mind that 
patch of yellow mud into which the Pescobaldis’ motor had 
sunk. She recalled the Marchese’s explanation that there 
was a spring under the ground. It was clear that the trol- 
ley must have been dragged across there very recently. 

“I want you and Cristina to go down into the town this 
morning. There is something I desire you to do for me at 
the English bank.” 

Before Lily, who had just had her breakfast, could answer, 
the Countess went on: “I want you to get some money 
changed for me there.” 

The Countess went quickly out of the kitchen, and Lily 


238 The Lonely House 

heard her go upstairs into her bedroom. In a few moments 
she was back again with a small work-box of old Italian 
wormanship. 

“I have here some English notes/' she said, '‘that I want 
changed into French money. As you know, there is a good 
rate of exchange, especially if it is done through an honest 
banker.” She paused, and then said firmly: “I want you 
to say that these notes were sent you from England in a 
registered letter.” 

Lily flushed up, and the Countess exclaimed: “It is a 
very small, a very white, lie!” 

“Why should I say anything?” said Lily uncomfort- 
ably. “Of course they will think I got the money from 
England.” 

“What hypocrites the English are!” The words were 
uttered very bitterly. “They think nothing of saying ‘Not 
at home’ when they are at home, but they hesitate about 
a small thing like this to oblige one who loves them.” 

Poor Lily! She felt overwhelmed with discomfort. It 
seemed to her that Aunt Cosy was making a fuss about 
nothing, and trying to make her, Lily, lie for the sake of 
lying. 

“Very well,” she said at last.? “If I should be asked — 
which I don’t think likely — ^then I will say that I got them 
from England. After all, they did come from England 
originally!” 

She held out her hand. She supposed Aunt Cosy was 
going to hand her three or four five-pound notes. 

But the Countess drew out of the pretty box a thick wad 
of paper money. 

Lily felt much taken aback. In this wad of bank notes 
which the Countess was holding in her hand there must be 
some hundreds of pounds — that is, supposing each note was 
worth five pounds. 

“It is not necessary to count them,” said the Countess 
quietly. “There are here — I have reckoned it all out — a 
hundred thousand francs, my child. That is — let me see ?” — 


The Lonely House 239 

she waited a moment — “four thousand pounds of English 
money.” 

“Four thousand pounds?” repeated Lily. She was thor- 
oughly startled. “What a tremendous lot of money, Aunt 
Cosy!” 

“Yet I should be sorry if I thought that Miss Rosa had 
only left you that tremendous amount of money?” ex- 
claimed the older woman drily. 

“Each of these notes must be worth a great deal,” said 
the girl slowly. 

“They are fifty-pound notes,” said the Countess quietly, 
“and there are here eighty of them.” 

“The bank manager will be very much surprised,” said 
Lily hesitatingly. Somehow she did not at all like the 
thought of doing this job for Aunt Cosy. “He will think 
it so extrabrdinarily that I should want so much French 
money. Mayn’t I say it is for Uncle Angelo?” 

“On no account do that, Lily.” The Countess looked 
much disturbed. “The money, as a matter of fact, belongs 
to a friend of mine, and Beppo is going to invest it,” 

She waited a moment. “Just now English people are 
sending their money to France because of the good rate of 
exchange. The banker will not be as surprised as you ex- 
pect him to be.” 

“I should just like to ask you one thing,” said Lily timidly. 

“Yes, my dear, what is that?” 

There was something forbidding in Aunt Cosy’s voice. 

“I’ve only been wondering, Aunt Cosy, whether these 
notes were paid through the bank where I have my account. 
If so, of course they will know that I cannot have received 
them from England.” 

Countess Polda, not for the first time, was startled at 
this, as she thought, unusual display of intelligence on Lily 
Fairfield’s part. 

“You can feel quite comfortable,” she said deliberately. 
“These notes have only just arrived in Monte Carlo by 
registered post. But if the slightest difficulty is made. 


240 The Lonely House 

then bring them straight back to me. Is that understood, 
Lily?” 

“The girl felt relieved. “Yes, of course. Aunt Cosy.” 

“I shall be very glad if you will start at once,” went on 
the Countess, “for I expect Beppo and his luggage early 
this afternoon. He will first see his friends off, and then 
he will come straight here. I need hardly say that you and 
Cristina must drive back. In fact, you had better engage 
a carriage as soon as you see one disengaged, and drive in 
it to the bank.” 

“Why should we do that?” asked Lily. 

The Countess told herself that the girl was a fool after 
all! 

“Because it would be very dangerous for you to leave the 
bank on foot with so much money on your person. Bad 
characters hang about banks to see what money is drawn 
out — then they snatch the bag or purse into which it has 
been put.” 

“I see,” said Lily slowly. She felt extremely, horribly 
uncomfortable at the thought of what she was going to do 
for Aunt Cosy. 

“While you are at Monte Carlo, would it not be well to 
send a telegram to Mr. Lowering, just to say that you have 
received his communication ? It might be well also to 
instruct him to purchase a handsome wreath. After all, 
you owe that, dear child, to dear Cousin Rosa!” 

Lily made no answer to that suggestion, and a few min- 
utes later she and Cristina started off for the town. The 
money, contained in a huge envelope which was fully ad- 
dressed, as Lily noticed, to herself, at La Solitude, lay at 
the bottom of the big market basket carried by the old 
waiting-woman. 

They had been walking for a few minutes when suddenly 
Lilyas companion slipped, and would have fallen had not 
the girl caught her strongly by the arm. 

“You ought not to have come out to-day, Cristina!” ex- 
claimed Lily. “I saw this morning that you were really ill.” 


The Lonely House 241 

*‘I got up too early, Mademoiselle,” said Cristina in a 
dull tone. “So I am very, very tired. Still, I am glad 
to be with you, and away from La Solitude!” 

“Surely it isn’t necessary for you to go to church, espe- 
cially on a week-day, so very early ?” said the girl impulsively. 

“I ought never to go into a church.” Cristina was speak- 
ing in an almost inaudible voice. “I am not worthy to 
enter the House of Gk)d. But, Mademoiselle, I feel so safe 
there. As you know, the Devil hates holy water. He cannot 
follow me past the porch.” 

She spoke in such a suffering, troubled tone that Lily had 
not the heart to smile at her extraordinary words. In a 
sense she was awed and moved by the sincerity of Cristina’s 
faith, even if she, Lily, thought it a curiously superstitious 
faith. 

“I am quite sure that only angels surround you, Cristina,” 
she said, now smiling outright. “The Devil is much too busy 
looking after his own to trouble about you !” 

“And what if I were to tell you that I am one of his own ?” 
said the old woman, looking round fixedly into the girl’s 
face. 

And though the sun was shining, and Lily’s heart was 
full of joy, there did come over her a strange, eerie feeling 
of fear. 

Cristina’s life in La Solitude, a life which must have been 
extraordinarily lonely before she, Lily, had come there, 
had evidently affected the poor old soul’s brain. . . . 

There are a good many lunatic asylums round Ep_som, 
and among Uncle Tom’s friends was a very clever doctor 
attached to one of these institutions. He had sometimes 
told the Fairfields pathetic stories of his patients, and of 
their strange, uncanny delusions. 

Lily’s thoughts turned instinctively to M. Popeau. She 
must ask him what could be done to rescue Cristina from a 
life which was evidently slowly driving her mad. There 
must be almshouses and homes of rest in France, as there 
are in England, suitable for such a case. 


242 The Lonely House 

She took Cristina’s hand. “Look here!” she exclaimed. 
“It’s wrong to feel like that — really wrong!” 

And then, as Cristina shook her head, she added, rather 
shyly: “I know you believe in the good God. Surely you 
do not think that He would allow evil spirits to surround 
you? Why, it’s a terrible thought!” 

Cristina gazed at Lily with a strangely pathetic look. 

“Forget that I said anything,” she whispered nervously. 
“If the Countess knew that I had said this to you. Made- 
moiselle, well — useful as I am to her, I think she would kill 
me! I am terribly, terribly afraid of her!” 

Lily’s heart beat with pity and concern. It was quite 
clear that Cristina, while fond of the Count in a way, and 
obviously adoring Beppo, hated her mistress. 

“Of course I shall say nothing to Aunt Cosy — I shouldn’t 
think of doing such a thing !” 

They walked on in silence. 

And then, suddenly, Cristina began to talk in quite a 
cheerful voice of the food she was going to buy for that 
night’s supper. It was clear that her mind had gone off to 
Beppo, and to his coming stay at La Solitude. 

Suddenly she asked: “Why has Mademoiselle got on a 
black dress and a black hat? To-day is a joyful day in 
Mademoiselle’s life !” 

Lily was puzzled by these words. Cristina couldn’t pos- 
sibly know that to-day, the first day of her secret engagement 
to Angus Stuart, was indeed marked with a white stone. 

She blushed and laughed. “I am happy, though I have 
had some sad news, Cristina, news that ought to make me 
sad. An old cousin of mine, who was very kind to me, is 
dead. The news was in the telegram which came for me 
yesterday.” 

“Ah!” said Cristina, drawing a long breath. “Made- 
moiselle has relieved my mind. The Countess took the 
telegram from the man, and I was afraid perhaps that 
Beppo was in some trouble!” 

They were now close to the entrance of the town, and the 


The Lonely House 243 

old woman put out her small, thin hand and touched the girl 
lightly on the arm. 

“You have been the good angel of La Solitude!’’ she 
exclaimed. “And now it is owing to you, to your being 
with us, that Beppo comes to pour fresh life into three 
withered hearts.” 

She waited a moment, then added slowly, almost reluc- 
tantly : “I should not have spoken as I did of the Countess 
just now. She is not entirely bad, for she is devoted to 
her son. This morning she told me she believed that hence- 
forth all would be well with him.” 

“Indeed, I hope it will!” said Lily. 

But still, there came across her a slight twinge of dis- 
comfort, for poor Cristina was looking at her with such 
a strangely adoring expression on her face. Her sensation 
of discomfort deepened when the 'old woman added: 

“And it is to you — to you, that we owe everything! I 
always feared that Beppo would marry a haughty, ugly 
woman, whom he would detest, from whose hand it would 
be bitter to take anything!” 

“I hope he will not do that,” said Lily, getting very red. 

“We know he will not do that. He is going to marry 
an angel !” 

Lily felt a sharp thrill of annoyance and dismay shoot 
through her. Aunt Cosy felt so convinced that she could 
force her, Lily, to marry Beppo, and Beppo to marry Lily, 
that she had actually confided her intention to Cristina! 

The girl hastened her footsteps. She felt embarrassed 
and angry. But somehow she did not believe that Beppo 
would lend himself to such a plot, if plot it was. 

Perhaps something of what she was feeling showed in her 
face, for several times Cristina looked at her with a nervous,, 
apprehensive look, though she said nothing. 

Things seldom turn out as one expects in this world. The 
bank manager, while professing himself quite willing to 
exchange the notes, yet offered her much fatherly counsel 
on the unwisdom of play. He apologised for what he called 


244 The Lonely House 

his impertinence, explaining that he had daughters of his 
own; and then he proceeded to tell her one or two sad 
stories about English ladies who had come to Monte Carlo 
and risked and lost the whole of their fortunes. Lily did 
not know what to answer. It seemed best to obey strictly 
Aunt Cosy’s injunctions, to listen to all he had to say, and 
to make no comment. 

When Lily came out of the bank she suddenly made up 
her mind that she would drive to the Convalescent Home, 
and arrange about work there. Something told her that it 
would be easier to persuade Aunt Cosy to let her do as she 
wished if the matter were settled. 

The place was a good deal further from La Solitude than 
the chaplain had given her to understand. In fact, it was 
in France, quite a couple of miles from Monte Carlo proper. 

But Lily found that she was eagerly expected by the 
good-natured, jolly-looking matron. It was arranged pro- 
visionally that she should go there three times a week, ar- 
riving about ten in the morning. “And we shall always be 
pleased to give you lunch,” the matron said, smiling into 
the girl’s pretty, happy face. 

After they had left the Convalescent Home and were 
driving back towards Monaco, Cristina suddenly exclaimed 
in a pleading voice, “I wonder if Mademoiselle would mind 
taking me for a moment to the Convent of the White Sisters ? 
It would not delay us more than ten minutes.” 

Lily assented, pleased that she could do something to give 
the old woman pleasure. 

In her eagerness, Cristina got up in the open carriage and 
touched their driver. He looked round, without slackening 
their break-neck pace. 

“The Convent of the White Sisters,” she exclaimed, and 
the man nodded, and whipped his horses up to go yet faster 
than they were going. 

Up the steep road leading into old Monaco the little car- 
riage rocked and swayed. They swept past the lovely 


The Lonely House 245 

garden of which Lily now had a poignant memory, and 
then they started going down more slowly a very narrow, 
quiet street of high stone houses, and finally they drew up 
opposite a huge closed iron gate. 

“Here we are!'’ exclaimed Cristina in an eager voice — a 
voice quite unlike her own. “My mother died when I was 
only five years old," she whispered, “and I was here a great 
deal, both as a child and as a young girl. Indeed, this con- 
vent was my real home." 

Lily was very much surprised; she had always supposed 
Cristina to be Italian born and bred. Then she was a 
Monegasque, after all ? 

A postern door opened, and Cristina motioned Lily to pass 
through into the courtyard round which the convent was 
built. 

Everything up on the rock has to be on a small and 
rather confined scale, but even so it was a fine and spacious 
courtyard, and Lily was surprised to see that there were four 
huge blue pots, exactly similar to the two at La Solitude. 
Perhaps Cristina saw the surprise in the English girl's face, 
for she said quickly, ‘These were presented, as well as the 
geraniums growing in them, by the Count to the White 
Sisters. There is a close connection between the Polda 
family and the White Sisters." 

“Yes, indeed," chimed in the nun who had admitted them. 
“Our holy foundress was a Countess Polda." 

Lily could not help smiling at the image evoked. With 
the best will in the world it would have been impossible to 
associate the epithet “holy" with the woman she knew as 
Countess Polda! 

The two visitors were shown straight into a small, lofty 
hall, of which the window overlooked the sea and the rugged 
coastline towards Nice. Just below the window was a nar- 
row, terraced garden. 

“I will inform the Mother Superior that you are here," 
said the sister ceremoniously; and as soon as she had left 
them Cristina hurried across to the window. “It is down 


246 The Lonely House 

there,” she said, pointing to a path which ran along the top 
terrace, ‘.‘that I used to play during Recreation !” 

The door opened, and a nun dressed all in white, a com- 
manding, almost a splendid, figure, who looked to Lily’s 
eyes as though she had stepped out of a mediaeval pageant, 
walked in. Cristina curtsied, and the nun put out her hand 
and clasped that of the old woman. 

“So this is your young English friend,” she said, and she 
fixed a pair of penetrating, dark eyes on Lily’s face. 

“I have brought her to receive your blessing,” said Cris- 
tina, “and I hope to bring Beppo before many days are past.” 
She added, rather nervously, ‘Mademoiselle is a Protestant, 
but that, no doubt, is a misfortune which will in time be 
remedied.” 

And then there came across the old nun’s face a very 
charming look. “An old woman’s blessing can only do Made- 
moiselle good!” she exclaimed; and then she took Lily in 
her arms and kissed her. 

The girl felt extremely moved, and, yes, interested by this, 
to her, surprising experience; but she felt vexed and also 
annoyed by the reference to Beppo Polda. It was obvious 
that Cristina meant to associate them, Beppo and herself, in 
the mind of the Mother Superior. 

“A sorrow has befallen the community,” said the nun in 
a sad tone. “We have lost our beautiful cat I Every effort 
is being made to find him, but we fear he found Monaco too 
dull, and that he betook himself off one morning to gay 
Monte Carlo.” 

The Mother Superior accompanied them across the court- 
yard. When they reached the postern gate Cristina burst 
into sudden tears. 

“How I wish I was going to stay here, with you!” she 
said, sobbing. 

But the old nun patted her on the shoulder. “Come, 
come, Cristina, you must not be foolish! How often have 
I told you that it is a privilege to serve God in the world.” 

Cristina dried her eyes, and Lily saw her make a deter- 


The Lonely House 247 

mined, almost agonised, effort to regain her usual quietude. 

For a time they drove along in silence, and then Lily 
said affectionately: “I am sure the Mother Superior would 
agree with what I said to you to-day, Cristina — that God 
is far too good to allow any evil spirits to some near you.*’ 

“No doubt she would say that,” answered Cristina som- 
brely, “but, like you. Mademoiselle, she is not in a position 
to know how God treats those who neglect to keep His laws.” 

And then Lily suddenly remembered with dismay that 
when making her arrangements with the matron of the Con- 
valescent Home she had forgotten all about Beppo’s visit to 
La Solitude! Perhaps, after all, she had better start going 
there regularly after he had left. 

What had happened the night before had altered the 
whole of life for Lily Fairfield. Everything, excepting 
Angus Stuart, his love for her, her love for him, seemed out 
of focus. She felt ashamed of the interest she had felt in 
Beppo Polda. She had looked forward to his visit at La 
Solitude, but now she regarded it with indifference, mixed 
with a certain apprehension — an apprehension which had 
deepened since Cristina had uttered those curious, ambiguous 
words to the old nun. Cristina obviously hoped, with all 
her heart, that she would marry Beppo, and without any 
doubt the Countess hoped so too, now that she, Lily, had 
become residuary legatee to Cousin Rosa. 

But somehow she no longer felt afraid of Aunt Cosy, and 
of Aunt Cosy’s plans. Even in England people often want 
a marriage to come to pass — and it just doesn’t! 

What would Lily have felt had she known that Aunt Cosy 
had taken from the postman that very day a bulky letter 
addressed to “Miss Lily Fairfield,” and, further, that after 
having carefully perused it, she had decided that it need 
never be delivered to its lawful owner? 


CHAPTER XXV 


I LOVE you, Lily — ^love you passionately ! Why should 
you be offended at my saying this? Surely you can 
understand that we Southerners are not like cold, calculat- 
ing Englishmen ? We say what is in our heart. You laughed 
just now when I told you that you had been my ideal 
woman for years, and yet, Lily, it is true !” 

Beppo’s voice was broken with what seemed to be real 
tears, and Lily, in spite of herself, felt moved and thrilled 
by his ardent words. 

It was the first evening of the young man’s stay at La 
Solitude, and the two were alone in the garden. After din- 
ner it was Lily who had suggested that they should go out 
of doors. She had done so quite simply, thinking that the 
Count and Countess would, as a matter of course, come out 
too. But they had both stayed in the stuffy salon, only 
opening one of the windows for a moment to watch with 
eager, benign eyes the two young people go off together, 
alone, into the moonlight, to the right, where there was a 
grass path which led to the confines of the little property. 

It was. there, pacing up and down almost within earshot 
of the house, that Beppo, soon throwing away his cigarette, 
had begun pouring out ardent declarations of love. . . . 

At first Lily had tried to treat what he said as a joke, or 
as a half -joke, but he had soon forced her to take him seri- 
ously, for he became more violent, more passionate in his 
utterances. 

Now she was just a little frightened. How would she 
ever get through the next few days, if whenever they were 
alone Beppo talked and, what was far worse, acted as he 
was now doing ? For suddenly he had seized her hands, and 

248 


The Lonely House 249 

now he was pressing burning kisses on their upturned 
palms. 

Perhaps he realised he was frightening and offending 
her, for, with that curious mixture of real ardour, passion, 
and cool, calculating intelligence, which is so marked a 
trait in most Southerners, he suddenly dropped her hands. 

“Forgive me!” he cried pathetically. “I have been pre- 
cipitate and selfish to-night. You are so good in allowing 
me to be your friend! It is well to begin with friendship 
when one aspires to love.” 

And, as he had expected her to do, Lily eagerly met him 
half-way. 

“I have always hoped you would be my friend,” she said 
sincerely. “Ever since I came here, ever since Aunt Cosy 
began talking about you to me, I hoped that if ever we met 
we should be real friends, Beppo.” 

“I too hoped it,” he said earnestly. “Do you remember 
that drive we took, only a few days ago? As we talked I 
felt that my soul and your soul were one ! We spoke so inti- 
mately; we said so many things that as a rule a young man 
and a young woman do not say to one another !” 

“I don’t quite know what you mean,” said Lily uncom- 
fortably. 

“Surely you remember my telling you how little I under- 
stood papa and mamma? Should I have said that to one I 
did not trust? And then you told me of your lonely child- 
hood, Lily,” — his voice dropped; it became very soft and 
caressing and gentle — “and I felt that we were truly friends 
henceforth !” 

“Yes,” she said slowly, “I enjoyed that drive very much. 
And it’s quite true, Beppo, that I do like you very much 
more when you are — what shall I say ? — sensible, than when 
you talk as you did just now.” 

“My pure angel!” he exclaimed ecstatically. “You do not 
know what it means to me to hear you speak like this !” He 
added in a lower tone: “It shows me what, of course, I 
already knew — ^that no man has ever made love to you, my 


250 The Lonely House 

exquisite Lily. You are a fragrant flower, who, till now, 
has bloomed alone !” 

And though Beppo’s words seemed to the girl walking by 
his side exaggerated, and even absurd, he uttered them in 
such a serious way and again Lily felt oddly touched. Poor 
Beppo ! Perhaps he had never had a chance of a straight- 
forward, happy friendship with a French or Italian girl. 

They were standing now at the extreme end of the grass 
path. From there, in the daytime, was a beautiful view of 
sea, sky, and coastline, towards France ; and Beppo began 
telling her some curious stories of his ancestors, who had 
been almost as great people through the ages, when the 
Riviera belonged to Italy, as were the Grimaldis on their 
frowning rock. 

At last, at her suggestion, they turned and walked slowly 
back to the house. The Countess had sat up for them, and 
as they came into the salon, she looked eagerly into Lily’s 
face, only to see, with disappointment, that the English girl 
looked her usual quiet, unemotional self. 

After Lily had gone upstairs, Beppo lingered on a mo- 
ment or two with his mother, and at last he 'answered the 
mute inquiry in her eyes. 

“I think I have made a good beginning,” he whispered. 
“But, mamma, it is no good being in a hurry with English- 
women! They do not understand! They are frightened 
and made uneasy if they are what the English call 'rushed.’ 
But that, mamma, is no disadvantage in the long run.” 

“In the long run?” echoed his mother, puzzled. 

“A man does not wish the damsel who is to be his wife 
to be too forthcoming,” he said, quoting an old Italian 
proverb. 

She nodded. What Beppo said was perfectly true. 

Lily got up long before Beppo was astir, and her heart 
was soon singing for joy, for she had gone to meet the post- 
man, and had received her first love-letter. 

Angus Stuart had compromised with his conscience by 


The Lonely House 251 

having no beginning to his letter, but he had not been able 
to keep back what was now filling his heart, and to Lily it 
was a perfect letter. He had added a long postcript: "‘I 
had no intention of trying to see you to-day, but Papa Pop- 
eau is determined to see Count Beppo Polda at close quar- 
ters, and so I couldn’t prevent his making the proposal that 
we should all meet at lunch.” 

There had also come for her an elaborate little note from 
M. Popeau proposing that the whole party at La Solitude 
should meet him and Captain Stuart at the Golf Club, and 
lunch there with them to-day. 

Lily could see no reason why they shouldn’t all be to- 
gether, and she did so long to see her lover. There was no 
fear that Angus would betray himself, though secretly she 
would have liked to tell Beppo the truth. She had felt such 
a hypocrite last night! 

Then, for the first time, it suddenly struck her as strange 
that Angus Stuart had not enclosed the little statement as 
to himself which he had pressed her so earnestly to send to 
Uncle Tom. However, that was a very small matter ! For 
her part, she had no wish he should ever send it to her. 
She had quite made up her mind. Even in the very unlikely 
event of Uncle Tom not approving, nothing he could say 
would make the slightest difference to her ! 

Thrusting the letter of her lover in her bodice, and with 
M. Popeau’s note in her hand, she went slowly back to the 
house, just in time to see Beppo, clad in a wonderful-looking 
dressing-gown, going, with an air of deep disgust, into the 
kitchen on his way to his bath. She could hardly help 
laughing outright. 

What a very singular creature he was 1 What a mass of 
contradictions! During dinner the night before there had 
been mention of a hunting expedition he had taken the 
spring before, during which he had endured, or so he hinted, 
untold hardships — and yet it was clear that he found the 
trifling discomforts associated with life at La Solitude al- 
most intolerable. 


252 The Lonely House 

Lily Fairfield felt very happy as she went out into the 
garden to wait for the others to come down. The day had 
opened radiantly well for her, and she could not help put- 
ting down a little of her feeling of happiness and content 
to the presence of Beppo Polda. Not only the Count and 
Countess, but Cristina also, seemed transformed. It was as 
if the atmosphere of the lonely house were changed, making 
all those in it happy — no longer gloomy, preoccupied, and 
anxious. 

When Aunt Cosy came down, Lily handed her M. Pop- 
eau’s note, fully expecting that she would say, in her 
decided way, that she could not go to the Golf Club, and that 
she did not suppose the Count would care to join the party 
either. But — “It will be a pleasant expedition for us all, 
Lily! We have only once gone up to the golf course since 
it was laid out. How glad I am that Beppo had the good 
thought of ordering a taxi to come this morning. It would 
have been quite impossible for me to walk.’* 

Her satisfaction at the thought of the forthcoming expe- 
dition was apparently shared by Uncle Angelo, but Lily at 
once saw that Beppo was not at all pleased. He obviously 
would have preferred going up to the Golf Club with her 
alone; but, still, he fell in with the plan and he made him- 
self very pleasant during the drive. 

M. Popeau had ordered an excellent luncheon, and was 
himself in exceptionally high spirits. The only two members 
of the party who did not contribute much to the general 
conversation were Angus Stuart and Count Polda, but 
they were both, by nature, silent men. 

To Lily’s secret relief, Beppo behaved perfectly. He 
paid her, that is, no more attention than was due to this 
mother’s guest. And when, after luncheon, the younger 
members of the party played a round in company with 
some English people with whom M. Popeau had made 
friends at the Hotel de Paris, he rather went out of his way 
to be attentive to a young married woman. Even so, Lily 
and her lover were not able to exchange more than a very 


The Lonely House 253 

few words alone together. Still, those moments were very 
precious. 

Poor Angus Stuart! Lily could not see into his heart — 
could not divine, closely as she felt in sympathy with him, 
how he longed to be with her, far away from all these tire- 
some people. All he said was: “Will you be coming down 
to the town — I mean alone, as you used to do — during the 
next two or three days?” 

Lily shook her head regretfully. “Fm afraid not! But 
Beppo Polda isn’t going to stay very long at La Solitude. 
He’s mixed up in some big money scheme, and he will have 
to go back to Rome in a few days.” 

The young man’s face darkened as she mentioned Beppo, 
and Lily saw the change in his face. 

“It’s all right!” she said quickly. “He’s been really very 
nice. But — but I do wish you’d let me tell him !” 

“No,” he said sharply. “I beg you not to do that 

and then under his breath he whispered the word, “darling” ; 
adding, “You see, I don’t want anyone to know till you’ve 
heard from your uncle. Oh, Lily ” and then he mut- 

tered, “Confound it!” ferociously for the Countess was 
coming towards them with a very determined look in her 
face. 

“Lily!” she exclaimed. “I wish you would explain to me 
this strange game? I feel that you, dear child, with your 
clear mind, will be able to make me understand it.” 

Angus Stuart scowled at the speaker, and she caught his 
look and put a black mark againsLhim — or, rather, she 
added a black mark to the several she had already registered 
with regard to this disagreeable, plain, young Scotsman who 
apparently thought he had a chance of beating her son at 
the great game at which Beppo had always been an expert 
and a lucky player, and he, Angus Stuart, a mere tyro — 
the human game called Love. 

Why, even if Lily had received and sent on that peculiar 
dry statement and formal covering letter which she, the 
Countess, had burnt in the empty grate of her bedroom 


254 The Lonely House 

yesterday, there was time enough for Lily and Beppo to be 
engaged and married ten times over before an answer could 
have come to it from Tom Fairfield. 

The only perfectly happy and contented member of the 
whole party was Hercules Popeau. 

He was intensely interested in what he regarded as the 
drama now being unfolded before his eyes. He had no 
doubt at all that the Count and Countess Polda intended 
their son to marry Lily Fairfield. He was equally con- 
vinced that they would fail. Also, though Angus Stuart 
had not said anything to him, his practical refusal to discuss 
what he and Lily had talked about during their long night 
walk to La Solitude, made him certain that something had 
been settled between the two young people. 

Count Beppo’s attitude interested and rather puzzled him. 
Was the young man playing a double game? His manner 
to Lily was simply civil and deferential. Indeed, it was 
hard to believe that the Beppo Polda of to-day was the 
same Beppo Polda who had showered such extravagant 
compliments on the girl at the Club two nights ago. The 
shrewd Frenchman wondered whether Lily Fairfield had 
confessed to an understanding with Angus Stuart — thus 
convincing Beppo Polda that she neither would nor could 
ever marry him. If so, the Count and Countess were 
evidently not in the secret. 

About an hour later Angus Stuart and Lily were again 
alone for a few moments. 

“I don’t know how I shall be able to get through- the 
time till you’ve heard from your uncle,” he said in a low 
tone. “Oh, Lily — I wonder if you know how much I love 
you ?” 

She was onjthe point of telling him that there was not the 
slightest necessity to write out that account of himself to 
which he had referred. And yet at the very back of her 
mind there was a good deal of surprise that he had not 
enclosed it in his letter to her that morning. He had made 
such a point of it — ^had said so very decidedly that they 


The Lonely House 255 

must not consider themselves engaged until Uncle Tom 
knew something about him, and approved 

“I do so hate that fellow being in the same house with 
you!” he muttered. 

Lily felt distressed. “He really is being quite, quite 
sensible !” 

“I did notice that he behaved decently at lunch.” The 
words were said grudgingly. “If he hadn’t, well ’ 

He stopped abruptly, for the others were now moving 
towards them, and so he turned away. 

It was clear, Lily admitted it to herself regretfully, that 
there would never be any love lost between Angus Stuart 
and Beppo Polda. And then, perhaps because the sun was 
shining, because she was near her lover, because everything 
seemed to be going just as she wanted it to go, Lily cast a 
little tender thought towards Beppo Polda. 

She did like him! She couldn’t help it! But perhaps it 
was just as well that henceforth their paths would lie far 
apart. She knew she could never, never make a friend of 
any man whom Angus really disliked. 

The days that followed were like a happy dream. Every 
morning brought Lily a letter from Angus Stuart. In the 
sunshine of his new-found happiness the ice of the young 
Scotsman’s reserve broke down, and his long letters filled 
her with delight, though she sometimes found it impossible 
to read the new one right through till she had locked 
herself in her room at night — for, somehow, she was 
never alone ! 

Beppo was her shadow — so much so that one day, to her 
annoyance, Cristina observed with a smile: “I once read a 
book when I was a young girl. Mademoiselle. It was called 
‘The Inseparables.’ You and the young Count remind me 
of the title of that book.” 

On the fifth morning of Beppo’s visit Lily made up her 
mind to go off to the Convalescent Home, and she actually 
did slip away before the young man was down. But she 
had only been at the Home an hour when she was told that 


i 


256 The Lonely House 

a gentleman wished to see her, and in the hall she found 
Beppo smiling, and a little apologetic. 

“It is such a lonely walk,” he explained, “that mamma 
thought I had better come and fetch you.” 

She made him wait a full half-hour while she finished 
the letters on which she was engaged, and then on the way 
back to La Solitude she rebuked him gently: 

“You know, whatever Aunt Cosy may do, that in Eng- 
land girls always go about by themselves. It’s absurd to 
say that it isn’t safe here — it’s absolutely safe! I’ve never 
met a man, woman or child who looked as if they would 
harm a fly! Before you came to La Solitude I constantly 
went down to Monte Carlo by myself, and more than once 
I came back during that strange change that takes place 
each afternoon, and which only seems to happen here — I 
mean when it’s daylight one moment and night the 
next ” 

“You will have plenty of time for your good works when 
I’ve gone back to Rome,” said Beppo firmly. He added, 
after a moment’s pause : “You would not deprive me of one 
minute of your company if you knew how much it meant 
to me.” 

He said these words very simply and sincerely, without 
garnishing them with any absurd compliments. And again 
Lily felt touched. What an odd, queer being this man strid- 
ing along by her side on the lonely hillside was ! So boyish 
in some of his ways, so mature in others. Such a man of 
the world, and yet now and again so very simple. 

During those days of Lily’s life Monte Carlo might have 
been a hundred miles from La Solitude. Beppo did not 
seem ever to want to go into the town; he was quite happy 
at the Golf Club, or taking Lily for drives in the funny 
ramshackle little motor which he had hired for a week. 

Two or three times Aunt Cosy had suggested that they 
should go down and have lunch or dinner in one of the big 
restaurants, but Beppo had refused. 

“If we do that,” he objected, “I’m sure to come across 


The Lonely House 257 

people I know, and then my reposeful little holiday will be 
over.” 

As for the Countess, she more than once said that she 
had- never been so happy as she was just now. 

Once, when they were alone together, his mother asked 
Beppo if he really must go back to Rome just yet, and he 
answered very seriously: 

‘‘You know, mamma, that the money you have so kindly 
given me should be invested so as to bring in the very 
highest return. My chance of doing that is to be in Rome 
with the man of whom I told you. But do not be afraid. 
I shall very soon come back. All is going well, if slowly.” 

“I suppose you are wise in going slowly with Lily?” said 
the Countess doubtfully. 

Beppo looked at her thoughtfully: “It is a great trial, 
but I have no doubt of the wisdom of my course, mamma. 
Believe me, clever as you are, I know women better than 
you do.” 

And she answered with a smile and a sigh, “I do not 
doubt that, my Beppo! And, after all, there is plenty of 
time.” 

“Yes, mamma. Thanks to your cleverness and goodness, 
there is!” 

The Countess lowered her voice: 

“Lily had a letter to-day from the lawyer. I asked her 
to show it to me. There is no doubt about the money. It is 
a fortune! Ninety-six thousand English pounds, according 
to what the man calls ‘a rough estimate’; but she will not 
receive it yet awhile.” 

“So much the better!” exclaimed Beppo. “You may 
laugh, mamma, but I am really and truly mad about her! 
Would that I were a millionaire, leading her penniless to 
the altar ! Then would I scatter diamonds and pearls, rubies 
and emeralds, before her feet !” 

His mother laughed. She could not help feeling a little 
twinge of jealousy, but still, she was becoming really very 
fond of Lily Fairfield. 


2^8 The Lonely House 

Countess Polda, like so many people, was always apt to 
admire what belonged to herself, and she now regarded the 
English girl as being practically her daughter-in-law. 

Even so, she noticed uneasily that Beppo was not making 
much way with Lily, and now and again there would come 
a moment of discomfort and doubt, when she would ask 
herself, with real uneasiness, whether the girl and Angus 
Stuart were in correspondence? There had certainly been 
no harm in the rather formal, dull letters the young man 
had written to Lily from Milan during the early days of 
their acquaintance. But Countess Polda did not consider 
it at all proper that a girl should be receiving letters from 
a member of the other sex. It seemed to her unfitting and 
unnecessary. 

Twice, while Lily had been out with Beppo, the Countess 
had searched her room very thoroughly in order to discover 
whether there were any new letters there from Angus 
Stuart. She had found nothing but a couple of notes — one 
from a friend of Emmeline Fairfield, the other from a girl 
who had evidently been at school with her correspondent. 

And so the days went by very quickly for all the inmates 
of La Solitude, until one day, at luncheon, Beppo suddenly 
exclaimed regretfully that a great Paris financier with 
whom he was in touch was to be in Rome four or five days 
from now, and that it was important he should see this 
man. 

“I have sent off a telegram to find out exactly when he 
will be there,” he said. ‘T do not mean to be long away, 
mamma !” 

The Countess saw a look of surprise, and not altogether 
one of pleased surprise, pass over Lily’s face, and that look 
disturbed the older woman. Did Lily regret the probable 
quick return of Beppo? 

The anxious mother began to wish ardently that some- 
thing might be settled between the young people before 
Beppo left. Drawing her son aside, after luncheon was fin-' 
ished, she said, a little nervously : “I hope you are not going 


The Lonely House 259 

too slow, my boy. You do not seem to me to be making 
very much way with our dear little friend.’" 

But he said: “Leave it to me, mamma. I will choose 
the right moment ! Do not interfere.” 

Even so, when she stood by the little gate on which were 
inscribed in faint characters “La Solitude” and saw the two 
start off for what had now become their daily drive in the 
beautiful hilly country which lies behind Monaco, she had a 
sensation that something was going to happen, and she 
was filled with doubt, anxiety, and suspense. 

How terrible to think that the future of so great and 
ancient a family as the Poldas should depend on the whim 
of a foolish girl of twenty-one! 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Y OU are frightening me, Beppo! We have been out 
long enough. Let us go home.” 

Lily Fairfield was speaking in a very quiet, level voice, 
but her face looked white and strained. 

Beppo had stopped the motor beside a steep and lonely 
mountain gorge; and now he was pouring a torrent of 
violent, passionate words of love into her ear. As soon as 
his hand was free he had grasped her left wrist as in a 
vice, and now he was trying to force her to look round at 
him. 

But she went on staring before her, a look of endurance 
and growing fear on her pale face. 

“There is nothing to be frightened of, Lily. Do you not 
understand that I love you? I love you as an Indian de- 
votee worships his idol! You are in no danger from me. 
I should not have spoken to you to-day had you not seemed 
so gentle and so kind. I thought your cold heart might be 
melting a little — that you might be feeling touched by my 
silent devotion! Now that I am going away so soon — 
surely I may speak? What is there between us — what is 
that menacing shadow that always rises up when I speak 
to you, God knows with infinite reverence and respect, of 
my love for you?” 

He was speaking in broken, agitated, pleading tones, and 
yet there was an underlying touch of fierceness in his voice 
which in very truth did terrify the girl. And the expression 
on his face had so changed that he seemed a savage 
stranger, rather than a friend. 

She knew that they were miles and miles from La Soli- 
tude — for all she knew, miles and miles away from any 

260 


The Lonely House 261 

human habitation — and she was sick with fear and distress. 
She felt as if she was dealing with a madman. 

She asked herself, in, a kind of agony, if it would be right 
to temporise, to soothe him down, to tell him that perhaps 
in time she would become as he wished her to be. 

And then the image of Angus Stuart rose before her. 
No, she could not be, even for a few moments, false to their 
love. 

“Only tell me that I may hope,” he reiterated urgently, 
“and I will compel you to love me! Nay,” — as he saw 
her shrink back — “I will teach you most gently, most de- 
votedly, to allow me to love you! That is all that I ask — it 
is not much, surely?” 

She turned round and faced him, but seeing his convulsed 
face and blazing eyes, her heart almost stopped beating with 
fright. She forced herself to say, very quietly: “If you 
will let go my hand, Beppo, I will speak to you.” 

He relaxed his strong, painful, grip of her soft wrist. 

“Forgive me!” he exclaimed. “I fear I hurt you — but 
Lily, I am mad — mad for love of you!” and he covered his 
face with his hands. 

“Believe me when I say that I am grateful for your 
love ” 

Poor Lily ! She stopped dead, for she did not know what 
more to say. She would have given years of her life to end 
this painful, to her this agonising, scene. And the still, 
lonely beauty of the country round her seemed to mock her 
distress. 

“God bless you for saying that!” exclaimed Beppo fer- 
vently. “Lily ! My sweet snow-like angel — do not be angry 
if I ask you to grant me one great, supreme favour ” 

Lily looked at him wonderingly. He spoke more like his 
old self, but he was gazing at her with supplicating eyes. 
What was he going to say now? He had already implored 
her to marry him — already implored her to try and love him 
— to allow him to love her — to give him time to prove his 
love for her ! What was there left to ask for ? A supreme 


262 The Lonely House 

favour? What a strange expression! He had been talking 
— for how long was it? she had lost count of time — ^ten 
minutes, a quarter of an hour, half an hour? — it had seemed 
an eternity to her — in so extravagant and wild a way that 
there seemed nothing left for him to say. 

“What is it?^' she asked uncertainly. “I would do a 
great deal to please you, Beppo, if only — if only” — her 
voice faltered — ^“if only you would be reasonable.” 

He was looking at her now intently, almost as if he were 
trying to hypnotise her, with those strange, brilliant blue 
eyes of his. 

“The favour I ask,” he said at last, and in a very low 
voice, “I ask, Lily, as a man prays for a saint’s intercession 
— on my knees. Do not be offended — do not be what you 
in England called ‘shocked.’ It is not a very great thing 
that I ask of you — yet to me it will be the greatest thing in 
the world. It is a thing which many a woman is quite 
willing to give — a friend.” 

He stopped, and Lily, looking at him puzzled, asked hesi- 
tatingly: “What is it, Beppo? You know I would do any- 
thing in reason to please you.” 

“All I ask for,” he said at last, “is the privilege ” 

“Yes?” said Lily. “What privilege, Beppo?” 

He did not answer at once, and when at last he spoke, his 
voice had dropped almost to a whisper. 

“The privilege of taking you in my arms and kissing you 
just once, Lily! That is all I ask. Is it not possible that 
at the contact of our lips your hesitation, your coldness, will 
melt? May I not teach you what a man’s love means to 
the woman he adores?” 

As he ended his quick, rapt, low utterances of these, to 
Lily, extraordinary and unexpected words, he suddenly got 
up, pulled her to her feet, and threw his arms round her. 

And then, in the little motor, there began a terrible, word- 
less struggle between the two. Lily was determined — ab- 
solutely determined — that he should not kiss her. Rather 
than that, she would wrench herself free and leap into 


The Lonely House 263 

the gulf to the edge of which they were now so perilously 
near. 

Did Bepjj Polda suddenly see into her terror-stricken 
mind ? Or was it that at last he felt the horror and repug- 
nance with which he inspired the girl whom he held closely 
pressed to him? Be that as it may, there swept over him, 
like a great tropical storm, a feeling of acute shame and self- 
loathing, as well as a determination that he would win her 
yet ! 

He relaxed his hold, but as he did so a wild blind rage 
rose up in his heart. Beppo Polda had never seen in a 
woman’s face the look of physical repugnance he now saw 
in hers. 

“You are not the pure angel that I thought you to be,” 
he said hoarsely. “You are keeping your kisses for another 
man. Is not that so, Lily? If the answer is ‘yes/ then I 
will drive you and myself over the precipice! I have lived 
my life — I should not mind dying with you !” He was lash- 
ing himself up into more and more furious anger. “What 
a simple-minded fool I was I You are not the first English 
girl .1 have known, Lily. But I put you on a pedestal. I 
did not think you were a flirt — now I know you arej And 
you have succeeded in making me behave as I never thought 
to behave to a woman.” 

She sank down, back in the corner of the little car-^-white 
and trembling all over, but feeling that Beppo’s madness 
had passed. But with what horror, what loathing, what fear 
she still regarded him ! 

“I offer you my humble apology for what has happened,” 
he said in a bitter tone. And then he started the car. 

They drove along, in dead silence, for some time. Sud- 
denly he slowed down, and turned towards her. 

“Lily,” he exclaimed, in a humble, deeply troubled tone, 
T implore you to forgive me! I behaved as I should 
never have thought myself capable of behaving to any human 
being, least of all to her whom I adore. Will you forgive 
me, Lily?” 


264 The Lonely House 

And as she remained silent, -for she was still in no state 
to speak, he went on: “I’ll do anything to atone. Impose 
the heaviest sentence, but do not look at me, Lily, as you 
are looking at me now!” 

She made a great effort over herself. 

“I do forgive you, Beppo,” she said in a low voice. “But 
I don’t want ever to think about what happened to-day, 
again. Try and forget it too. I see,” she tried to smile, 
“that my leaving England at all was a mistake. I don’t 
understand foreigners and their ways. Perhaps I was to 
blame. Please don’t tell Aunt Cosy anything about it,” 
she looked at him pleadingly. 

“I am not going to stay at La Solitude long,” she went 
on. “I’ve been thinking for some days that after you were 
gone I would make an arrangement with the Convalescent 
Home — ^they’ll be glad for me to stay there for a while.” 

He felt utterly dismayed. “Do not punish my poor father 
and mother for my evil deeds! Lily, that would not be like 
you — that would be most cruel and ungenerous ! Most hum- 
bly do I beg your pardon. But — ^but, Lily, forgive me if I 
ask you — you do admit that I love you, do you not?” 

There was a long pause. And then Lily said, “Yes, 
Beppo, I do believe you love me — ^though you show yoiir 
love in what seems to me a very strange way.” 

Her frankness took him completely by surprise — and 
somehow gave him hope. 

“If I were to go away,” he said suddenly, “and then 
come back after a long time, is there any, any hope that I 
might find you different?” 

She shook her head, and then, for the first time, she burst 
into tears. 

Beppo stopped the car. He took her hand — very gently 
this time. 

“Lily,” he exclaimed, “I shall never, never forgive myself 
for what happened to-day! Some demon whispered in my 
ear that if you would allow me to kiss you all would come 
right. It was a foolish and an arrogant thought. But I 


The Lonely House 265 

was going away — and, Lily, you admit that you know I 
love you!” 

“Yes,” she said in a low tone. “I do know that. But 
let us try to forget what happened to-day — we have been so 
happy, so comfortable together, since you came to La Soli- 
tude!” 

“Do you think you will ever feel happy and comfortable 
with me again?” he asked. 

And she said slowly, “Yes, of course I shall — as soon as I 
can forget what happened just now. Let’s get home, Beppo. 
And, if you don’t mind, do promise me never to speak to 
me of it again !” 

“I do promise you,” he said solemnly. And then, to Lily’s 
secret astonishment, Beppo seemed suddenly to slip back 
into his old pleasant, easy way with her ! It was almost as 
if what had happened on the edge of that great wooded 
gorge had been a dream — ^horrible, unnerving to look back 
on, but still only a dream. 

Even so, she felt she would never forget, not even if she 
lived another fifty years, that awful moment of wordless, 
passionate struggle in the little car. She shuddered as she 
remembered how she had told herself that could she only 
free herself from Beppo’s strong arms she would leap out 
into the void rather than endure the further contamination 
of his touch. 

When they were close to La Solitude Beppo suddenly 
turned round. “Look here!” he exclaimed, “I think I’ll 
go down to Monte Carlo this afternoon. A fellow I know 
asked me to meet him at the Club this evening. Good 
Madame Sansot will give me a bed at the Utrecht Hotel.” 
He paused. “Perhaps your thoughts will be kinder to- 
morrow ?” 

He said those words so humbly and sincerely that poor 
Lily felt troubled. 

“Won’t your going away upset Aunt Cosy?” she asked 
timidly. 

“No, not a bit! I shall come up in the morning. But 


266 The Lonely House 

this is our last drive in this little car. Would that it had 
been, a happier one for you ! Tell them that I have gone 
down with the car, Lily, and that I may or may not come 
back to dinner.” 

They were now on the clearing below the house, and then, 
so strange is human nature, Lily, in spite of all that had 
happened, felt just a little sorry that Beppo was going to 
leave her to go up alone to deliver his message at La Solitude. 

“Won’t you come up to the house?” she said nervously. 
“They’ll think it so odd — your going away like this.” 

And at once he said, quickly and reassuringly: “Yes, of 
course I’ll come up! I thought you would^refer that I 
should not do so.” ^ 

-She made no answer to that remark, and as they were 
walking up through the wood he asked. “Lily? Am I 
forgiven ?” 

“Yes,” she said, “you are forgiven, Beppo, and I really 
mean it. But never speak of it again. Perhaps I was 
foolish to be as upset as I was.” 

“I was mad !” he muttered, “absolutely mad ! When I am 
like that I lose possession of my senses — I forget what I do. 
Did I say anything very terrible to you ?” 

She tried to smile. “I can’t remember,” she replied 
evasively. “Don’t let’s think about it any more, Beppo— 
please — please !” ' 

And so it was an apparently very friendly couple who 
came up to the house. But the Countess had almost second 
sight where her son was concerned. She saw at once that 
there had been some kind of trouble ; still, she pretended to 
see nothing, and accepted Beppo’s news as to his forth- 
coming evening at the Club, and his night in Monte Carlo 
with apparent equanimity. 

He kissed his mother and shook hands warmly with Lily. 
“I shall be up to-morrow morning,” 'he said. “Not very 
early, but in time for lunch.” 

Lily went up to her room; she washed her face and she 
scrubbed her hands. And then she did what she could not 


The Lonely House 267 

remember ever having done before — she locked' her door and 
lay down on her bed. 

She lived through every moment of that awful time. If 
only it had not happened! It had spoilt her pleasant rela- 
tions with Beppo she felt — for ever. Also, it would and must 
remain a secret as regarded herself and Angus Stuart. She 
could never, never tell him of what had happened to-day ! 

She looked at her wrist; it was still swollen. But Beppo 
had not known that he was hurting her. At one moment 
of their struggle the pressure of his arms had been so 
strong that she^had thought he would suffocate her, that she 
would faint — and she had been quite determined not to faint. 
She remembered with what a sensation of physical repul- 
sion she had struggled — even after he had released her so 
suddenly the feeling had persisted for some time. 

And now that feeling had become transferred, in a queer 
kind of way, to Aunt Cosy. When Aunt Cosy had come 
near her just now she had felt as if she must scream I Her 
nerves were thoroughly upset. 

A few minutes before she knew supper would be ready, 
Lily got up and changed her dress ; and then she cast a 
longing look at the now growing packet of Angus Stuart’s 
letters. How right he had been when he had said that he 
wished she would leave La Solitude! 

She made up her mind that to-morrow morning she would 
slip off to the Convalescent Home, and ask if they could 
put her up for a few days. When there she would be able 
to see Angus, and arrange never to go back to La Solitude 
again. 

Though Lily tried to behave exactly as usual during the 
evening that followed, the Countess was well aware that 
something was wrong. She kept looking at the girl with a 
kind of furtive, anxious scrutiny. 

“Did you have a pleasant drive?” asked Uncle Angelo. 
And Lil}r was able to answer, with some appearance of 
naturalness, “Yes, for we went a new way, and came to a 
most wonderful gorge. I thought it one of the loveliest 


268 The Lonely House 

spots I had ever seen !” And then she stopped, suddenly 
overcome by the recollection of what had happened there. 

*'You do not look well, Lily,” said the Countess anxiously. 
“You look very tired, my dear. Would you like to go up 
to bed at once, after dinner?” 

Lily gratefully accepted. She hoped that very soon La 
Solitude would have become a memory — a memory of 
strangely mingled pain and pleasure, of regret and happiness. 
But now pain, regret and, yes, a hidden fear, predominated, 
and she longed, with a kind of desperate longing, to escape 
— now, at once, in the darkness, down to the Hotel de Paris, 
to kind, sensible Papa Popeau, and to the man who loved 
her, and whom she loved ! 

For one wild moment she actually thought of doing so. 
And then she felt ashamed. After all, both Aunt Cosy and 
Uncle Angelo had been very kind to her, according to their 
lights. And she knew only too well how hurt and angry 
Aunt Cosy would be when she learnt that Lily had no inten- 
tion of staying on at La Solitude all the winter. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


I INSIST on knowing what is the matter, Beppo?” The 
Countess Polda gazed apprehensively at her son. Not 
even when he had been going through acute money trouble 
had he looked as moody and miserable as he looked now. 

He had just arrived at La Solitude to hear that Lily had 
gone off to the Convalescent Home for the morning. 

'T do not know that very much is the matter,” he an- 
swered deliberately, “but perhaps I ought to tell you that 
I fear you are going to have a big disappointment. As you 
are such a clever woman, as well as an unscrupulous woman,’’ 
he laughed disagreeably, “very often what you desire to hap- 
pen does happen. But as regards Lily Fairfield you are 
destined to meet with failure.” 

The Countess felt a shock go through her. Instinctively 
she put her hand on her heart. But she answered him at 
once, in a calm, good-humoured tone: 

“You are such a child, Beppo! And like most young 
men you are vain and impatient. I never supposed that Lily 
would fall into your arms at once, as no doubt a great many 
pretty ladies have done ere now ! Believe me, when you are 
married to her you will be glad that she was not what you 
want to find her now — eager and ready to be made love to. 
Perhaps without knowing it you have startled her. English 
girls are sometimes very prudish, you know.” 

The Countess was looking fixedly at her son, and she saw 
that she had guessed right. They had evidently had some 
kind of a scene yesterday. 

“I allowed you to behave d VAnglaise/' she went on — “I 
mean taking those walks and drives together — because I 
thought I could trust to your good sense. But I fear I 
was wrong, Beppo.” 


269 


270 The Lonely House 

“I lose my head when I am with Lily!” he exclaimed. 
“Her coldness excites me I I do not want to make a mystery 
about it, mamma. I see you have guessed that I was a 
fool !” 

As he saw a look of keen dismay come over her face, he 
added lightly: “Nothing very much happened. But yes, it 
is, true that while we were out yesterday we had something 
of a quarrel. I told her that if she refused to let> me kiss 
her I would send the car over the edge of the precipice!” 

He saw the colour recede from his mother’s face. She 
suddenly looked like an old woman — old, and desperately 
tired. He felt queerly touched. 

“Come, come, mamma, don’t be frightened! Years ago, 
when I was younger, I might have been so mad, but I am 
an older and a wiser man now.” 

“Then you did not kiss her?” 

“No, mamma; I could have done so, as, of course, she 
was at my mercy. But — well,” he shrugged his shoulders, 
“I never have kissed an unwilling woman.” 

“Her conduct is strange,” said the Countess thoughtfully, 
“for she certainly seems to like you.” The speaker still felt 
very shaky, but she was trying to pull herself together. 

“I wonder if it has ever occurred to you,” said Beppo, 
“that there is already a man in Lily’s life? I taunted her — 
for, mamma, I quite lost my head — and now, looking back, 
I remember that she said nothing. She did not deny it — ^as 
a modest girl would have done.” 

As the Countess remained silent, he went on: 

“In one of your letters you said that Lily had solemnly 
assured you she was not engaged, and that you believed this 
to be the truth. But . mamma, has it ever occurred to you 
that the curious, silent young man, that Captain Stuart 
who is staying down at the Hotel de Paris, may be in love 
with her? If he were a Frenchman I would call him out,” 
added Beppo fiercely. “We would have a duel, and I would 
kill him !” 

“The girl hardly knows him,” she said slowly. 


The Lonely House 271 

“I cannot help suspecting that I have a rival! Yet till 
yesterday I would have sworn that she was as pure as the 
flower from which she takes her name!’’ 

"‘You can still swear that,” said the Countess firmly. 

She made up her mind to remain absolutely silent as to 
the little she knew about Angus Stuart and his friendship 
with Lily Fairfield. After all, there was only that letter — 
that rather short, formal letter, enclosing those notes on the 
writer’s life. Still, she had thought of that letter and of 
those notes very often, as she had watched the girl during 
the last few days, much as a big, wily cat watches an unsus- 
pecting mouse. She was fairly sure that Lily had not sent 
any letter out of the house, apart from the one she had 
written to her uncle. It was true that the girl went to meet 
the postman every morning, but in Monaco postmen are not 
allowed to take letters to the post, and the post-box was 
some way down the hill. The Countess was certain that Lily 
had not been down there alone during the last few days. 

Still, the thought that her carefully-laid plans for her son’s 
happiness and prosperity might go wrong because of a silly 
flirtation between Lily Fairfield and a casual train acquain- 
tance made the Countess Polda feel as if she would go mad 
with disappointment and rage. She began to hate the girl 
whom only the previous morning she had almost loved. 

'‘Beppo,” she said, and her voice trembled, “do you truly 
love Lily Fairfield?” 

“Yes, I love her,” he said sombrely. “And I have never 
wanted anything so much, mamma. It is quite true that 
her money — if, indeed, she is. certain to have the fortune in 
which you so confidently believe — would transform my life 
from that of an adventurer to that of a successful and 
happy man,” — he was speaking very seriously now. “But, 
apart from that fortune, even with only the few thousands 
we know she possesses, I would accept her as a gift from 
Heaven, on my knees !” 

And if rather ashamed of the emotion he had shown, he 
added in a lighter tone: “It is time that I settled down. 


272 The Lonely House 

Livia Pescobaldi is always urging me to do so! She was 
disappointed that I did not marry that ugly American girl 
last winter.” 

There was a pause, and then the Countess said solemnly : 

“Has your mother ever failed you, Beppo?” 

He was startled, and again he felt oddly moved. 

“No, mamma. You’ve performed wonders! And I’ve 
often racked my brains to know how you did it !” 

“I promise you that Lily Fairfield will in time be your 
wife. But do not be in too great a hurry, my son. Carry 
out your plan of going to Rome in two or three days, and 
stay away a little longer than you at first intended to do. 
Then come back, but not to La Solitude; go to the Hotel 
Hidalgo ” 

“I am sick of the Hidalgo!” he exclaimed. “If I do 
what you wish, mamma, I shall ask Madame Sansot to put 
me up again at the Utrecht Hotel.” 

“Not the Utrecht Hotel!” cried his mother hastily. 
“Surely you have never stayed there? It is a very com- 
mon, low kind of place.” 

“I slept there last night,” said Beppo quickly. “And 
perhaps because, thanks to you, I now have all that money, 
mamma, I have become a miser! I want to take care of 
this money — to make use of it. I do not want it to slip 
away in hotel bills!” 

“It will not slip away,” said his mother quietly. “And 
thanks to this money, there is no need for undue haste. I 
swear to you, Beppo, that if you are patient you will win 
Lily at last.” 

“Perhaps you are right, mamma — you are so often right ! 
I will go back to where I started with Lily. She told me 
not many days ago that I was almost her ideal of — what 
do you think, mamma?” 

“Tell me?” cried the Countess eagerly. 

“Of a brother — only that!” he laughed rather harshly. 
“At any rate she shall be my dear little sister till I go away 
the day after to-morrow.” 


The Lonely House 273 

“And do not give a jealous thought to that dull Scots- 
man,” said his mother lightly. “His French friend is 
going back to Paris very soon, and I have an idea that he 
will then go away, too. Without being vain you can tell 
yourself, Beppo, that you are very much more attractive 
than Captain Angus Stuart!” 

He was surprised to hear her pronounce so easily the 
curious Scottish name. 

“I am not really jealous of the man. She hardly knows 
him — I know that,” he said in a satisfied tone. 

And his mother was glad indeed that she had not told 
him the little that she knew. 

“You have made me feel quite happy again mamma! 
I know that you are right, and that I was a fool to be so 
impatient. But it is hard to be forced to go slow, as the 
English say, when one adores a woman!” 

l^eppo put his arms round his mother and gave her an 
affectionate kiss. 

“There is no one in the world like my mamma.” He 
said contentedly. There was a moment’s pause, then: 
“Would you advise me to go to the Convalescent Home 
now, this morning, as I did the other day?” 

“No,” said his mother, without hesitation. “I think that 
would be a mistake.” 

“By the way, there is something I can do to fill in the 
time till she returns!” he exclaimed. “The Utrecht Hotel” 
— he did not see just a quiver of discomfort and anxiety 
cross his mother’s face as he uttered the name — “the 
Utrecht Hotel,” he repeated, “is in the most tremendous 
state of excitement! There was an eccentric old man stay- 
ing there who disappeared mysteriously some days ago. 
Well, mamma, his body has been found ! I had a most in- 
teresting talk about the whole thing with Bouton — you 
know, the Chief Commissioner of Police. He and that man 
Popeau are much excited about the matter. For it appears 
that the old man was no gambler. He was a strange old 
fellow, and always carried an enormous sum of money 


274 The Lonely House 

about his person — some of it sewn up in his clothes. Well, 
though Mme. Sansot swears she never told anyone the fact 
it evidently became known to some band of robbers. He 
was waylaid ” 

“A sadly common story,” observed the Countess. She 
was staring across the lawn towards the sea, and she spoke 
in an indifferent tone of voice, as if thinking of something 
else. 

Beppo felt rather put out. 

“The body was found very near here,'' he said impress- 
ively. 

“Near here?” she repeated mechanically. 

“Yes, mamma, close to that place where there is a spring 
under the ground. But for the accident that the owner of 
the land there had to move some hurdles, the body might 
have lain undiscovered for months.” 

“That is certainly curious!” exclaimed his mother. She 
had turned away, and was obviously about to go in- 
doors. 

“Let me tell you the rest of the story,” pleaded Beppo 
eagerly. “It is really very interesting — and full of curious, 
mysterious points.” 

His mother turned and looked at him. “Tell me quickly, 
dear child, for I have things to do this morning.” 

He went on, eagerly: “Mme. Sansot did tell the police 
of the old man’s disappearance; but he was so exceedingly 
eccentric, and paid his bill from day to day — so the police 
made up their minds that he had slipped off to Nice. The 
shabby portmanteau which he left at the hotel — I was 
shown it this morning — was not worth more than thirty or 
forty francs and only had a change of linen in it, and an 
old pair of boots.” 

“Pray do not talk of this painful affair before your father,” 
said the Countess in a low voice. “And I need hardly warn 
you not to say anything about it before Lily either.” 

“I don’t see why I should not tell papa,” said Beppo 
quickly. “I think it would interest him very much. There 


The Lonely House 275 

is nothing more exciting, mamma, than a murder mystery. 
I confess that among the most interesting hours of my life 
were those spent by me at the Murri trial. You will re- 
member that Livia was determined to go to it, and that I 
escorted her on that occasion.” 

“Yes, and I thought it horrible that a woman should wish 
to be in any v^jay associated with such an affair!” ex- 
claimed the Countess. “It is one of the things about our 
dear Livia that I have always remembered with distaste 
and disapproval.” 

The young man shrugged his shoulders. He was sorry 
he had mentioned the Marchesa Pescobaldi. 

“Your father is not well,” went on the Countess, “and 
I should not like him to hear, even less to see, anything of a 
painful nature.” 

“He is bound to hear of it,” said Beppo positively. “The 
whole of the Condamine is ringing with the story. You 
see, it is not in any way mixed up with the Casino, and 
therefore no great effort is being made to hush the matter 
up. However, I will do as you wish — I will say nothing 
about it. But you must permit me, mamma, to be inter- 
ested in the affair! In fact, with your permission, I shall 
go off now and investigate the spot where the body was 
found.” 

He waved his hand, and smiled at her, telling himself 
with a little pang of concern, for he was an affectionate if a 
selfish son, that his mother had grown very much older in 
the last two or three years. It was she who looked ill to-day 
— not his good, easy-going papa. 

And then, after he had disappeared round the edge of 
the terrace, the Countess walked a little gropingly, as might 
have walked a blind woman, through into the drawing- 
room. 

There was no one there, and she gave an involuntary 
sigh of relief. She had a disagreeable communication to 
make to her husband and to Cristina, and she was glad that 
she would not have to make it at once. She was going to 


276 The Lonely House 

propose something that she knew would annoy and frighten 
both of her house-mates, and yet it was something which, 
though disagreeable, had to be done. For the matter con- 
cerned Beppo — and would take a danger and an obstacle 
out of her son’s way, make the future for Beppo smooth. 
Surely Angelo would understand, and not involve her in a 
long, tiring argument? Still, she would begin with 
Cristina. 

She left the Hrawing-room, and went slowly to the tiny 
kitchen. 

Cristina was sitting at the small table, doing nothing. 
She looked up with unsmiling eyes at one whom she re- 
garded as an intruder on her domain. 

And, on meeting that look, the Countess felt a pang of 
exasperation and pain. It was not her fault that Cristina’s 
help was required! Often in the past she had felt that 
she would have given anything in the world if she could 
have carried through her schemes unaided. But there are 
things which no woman, however clever, however deter- 
mined, however physically strong, can do alone. And the 
thing which the Countess had made up her mind must be 
done within the next few days was one of those things in 
which the co-operation of at least two other human beings 
was required. 

Five minutes after the Countess had entered the kitchen 
she left it, wiping a few drops from her forehead as she did 
so. She was not a nervous woman, but the five minutes 
had tried her nerves severely. For Cristina, to her horror 
and surprise, had begun by refusing to accede to her 
wishes. 

“I would rather kill myself !” the old woman had said. 
“And what is more, I will kill myself if you drive me too 
far! Whether I go to hell in the next few days, or in the 
next few years, does not matter much to me. For the mat- 
ter of that, I am in hell already!” 

And then, after the Countess had answered these wild, 
extravagant, and foolish words very quietly, making an 


The Lonely House 277 

appeal to Cristina’s better feelings, and to her love for 
Beppo, the other had bowed down her head over the table, 
and, sobbing bitterly, had confessed herself conquered. Yes, 
for one more time, she would do what was required of her. 
But it must be the last time, for she was at the end of her 
strength. 

“And what do you think I feel?” the Countess had 
asked passionately. And then she had gone into her own sit- 
ting-room and sat down. 

Opening a drawer she took out of it a box of little heart 
pills, which had been given her six years ago by the special- 
ist at Marseilles whom she had gone to consult about the 
state of her health. She took two of these, waited for their 
effect to begin, and then, as she gradually began to feel 
calmer, she got up and, opening the door, went upstairs 
to find the Count. It had been her suggestion that the pa- 
tience table should be taken up there, so as to leave the 
drawing-room free for Beppo and Lily to talk together in 
the odd English fashion. 

Beppo would have been extremely surprised had he heard 
the words she uttered as she entered the room where her 
husband sat playing patience. Those words were: 

“The body of Vissering has been found, Angelo. And 
we must be prepared for some kind of interrogation. I do 
not feel we can absolutely trust Mme. Sansot. She has been 
most sensible and most loyal up to now, but still, one never 
knows ” 

Count Polda got up — a sure sign of agitation with him — 
and came towards her. 

“It is no use to build a bridge for trouble,” he said slowly. 
“Unlike you, I am not afraid of Leonie Sansot. I think 
she will keep faith with us. The more so that it would only 
be a complication were she now to admit she had not told 
the truth at first ! Also, she knows so very little. Only that 
the old brute dined here the night he disappeared.” 

His words consoled the Countess considerably. She sud- 
denly made up her mind that she would not tell him yet of the 


278 The Lonely House 

perilous task which lay just in front of them. There would 
be time for that a little later on. 

By the time her son and Lily came back to La Solitude, 
she was her own genial, rather garrulous self again. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


I T was Beppo’s last day, and what had happened forty- 
eight hours ago now seemed to Lily Fairfield like a bad 
dream. 

Beppo was once more the kindly, good-natured, almost 
brotherly friend of his first week’s stay at La Solitude. And 
though Lily could see that Aunt Cosy was unlike herself, 
for she looked oddly disturbed, anxious and gloomy, she 
had taken very well the news that Lily had accepted an invita- 
tion to stay with the matron of the Convalescent Home for 
a few days. 

Poor Lily! She felt ashamed of her duplicity, for she 
knew, deep in her heart, that she had no intention of coming 
back, at any rate for more than a day or two, to La Solitude. 

Beppo was taking the afternoon train to Italy, and it had 
been arranged that the carriage which brought the Count 
and Countess back from seeing their son off should take 
Lily and her luggage to the Convalescent Home. 

While all these kindly arrangements were being made, 
and especially when she heard Cristina say: “I shall miss 
you. Mademoiselle. Do not stay too long away,” she felt 
as if she must come back just for a few days. But all that 
could be settled later on. 

Meanwhile, she was determined to do everything in her 
power to make the last hours of Beppo’s stay at La Solitude 
pleasant. She wanted him to feel that she had really for- 
given him that wild, strange, terrifying scene in the moun- 
tains. So, when he asked her to take a last walk with him, 
she willingly assented. 

They had been out for nearly an hour, and were on their 
homeward way, when they stopped a moment on a path 
which seemed as if cut out of the mountain side. 

279 


280 The Lonely House 

Below was a sloping carpet composed of the tops of olive 
trees, and Lily felt a sensation of delight come over her as 
she looked at the wonderful panorama spread out before 
them. 

“While you are at the Home,” said Beppo suddenly, “do 
not do what I am told many of the English nurses did here 
during the war — that is, take a walk all by yourself each 
afternoon. It is not safe to do so.” 

“Surely you exaggerate the danger,” said lily, smiling. 

“A mysterious murder was lately committed just below 
the Spot where we stand,” observed Beppo impressively. “I 
mentioned it to mamma, who was much upset and begged 
me to say nothing to papa or Cristina. So will you keep 
what I am going to tell you to yourself, Lily?” 

“What a dreadful thing!” exclaimed Lily. 

She told herself that it really did look as if poor Mr. 
Ponting's friend had been right, and that there was a gang of 
bad characters — ^brigands, as the Countess called them — who 
lay in wait for any passer-by who looked as if he had money 
in his possession I 

“The affair has specially impressed me,” went on Beppo, 
“because the man was staying in the hotel where I stayed 
a couple of nights ago. It is an hotel kept by a person in 
whom we Poldas have an interest, for she is the daughter 
of an old servant of my grandfather.” 

Lily was startled by Beppo’s words. That must, of course, 
be the Utrecht Hotel, where that horrid Mr. Vissering was 
staying. 

“It is a commercial hotel in the Condamine,” went on 
Beppo. “Nothing smart about it all, but a respectable place, 
with a Dutch connection.” 

His companion felt a sudden, unreasoning thrill of sur- 
prise and ^scomfort run through her. Standing there, in 
the sunshine, with that marvellous view spread out before 
her, it was as if she had been suddenly borne on a magic 
carpet to the sordid, dirty, little smoking-room where she 
had met that sinister old Dutchman! Beppo, absorbed in 


The Lonely House 281 

himself, and in the story he was telling, did not notice the 
look of apprehension which flitted across her face. 

“Listen to what I am going to tell you,” he said earnestly. 
“It will prove to you that my warning as to your lonely 
walks is by no means foolish or exaggerated.” 

He waited a moment and then went on : 

“About a month ago there arrived at the Utrecht Hotel 
a rich Dutchman. He had made a lot of money out of 
the war, and he had come to Monte Carlo to see a little life. 
After a while the woman who keeps the hotel — her name is 
Sansot — discovered that the old fellow had with him a great 
deal, in fact an enormous lot, of money. He kept most of 
it on his person, sewn into his clothes, and in deep pockets 
he had had specially made for the purpose. He was a queer 
individual, and he did not care for gambling, in fact he very 
seldom went into the Rooms at all ” 

“Efld you know this old man?” asked Lily in a low voice. 

Beppo shook his head. 

“I ? Of course not ! But when I went down to the Utrecht 
Hotel the other evening I found the place in great com- 
motion.” 

“Why that?” asked Lily. Her voice had sunk almost 

to a whisper. “Has anything happened to ” she nearly 

said “Mr. Vissering,” but stopped herself in time! 

Her heart was beating, she felt filled with a kind of strange 
shrinking apprehension; why had Aunt Cosy and Uncle 
Angelo told her that lie — as to Mr. Vissering being a business 
friend of Beppo’s? She longed, and yet she feared, to hear 
what Beppo had still to say. 

“Let me tell my story in order!” went on Beppo im- 
portantly. “About ten days ago or so the old Dutchman 
disappeared. He had gone out to dinner somewhere, and 
he told Mme. Sansot that he would be sure to be back early. 
But he never returned! Luckily for herself, the woman 
informed the police the next day. She was nervous, owing 
to her knowledge that the man had so much money on 
him — though she declares that she never told anybody of the 


282 The Lonely House 

fact. Well, Lily, to cut a long story short, this Dutchman’s 
body was found down there” — he pointed vaguely to a spot 
among the tree-tops just below where they were standing. 

“His body was found?” repeated Lily mechanically. 

“It is probable that he had had supper in one of the villas 
which are scattered about on the mountain side, but what 
happened there is still a complete mystery. Perhaps his 
murderers followed him from the villa where he had dined 
and brutally did him to death in a lonely spot, or, if your 
friend Popeau is right, he was murdered in the villa and his 
body conveyed to where it was found, after his death.” 

“How — how terrible !” whispered Lily. 

She felt as if everything was going round her, as if she 
was about to faint. Her hand clutched convulsively the iron 
railing in front of her. 

“The body was found under a heap of hurdles,” went on 
Beppo, “and it was only owing to the fact that the peasant 
to whom these hurdles belonged had sold them to a neighbour 
that the corpse did not lie there undiscovered till next spring. 
Though the body was almost naked, the clothes were neatly 
arranged under it. They had been ripped open and all the 
money taken away!” 

As Lily made no comment, he added: 

“You can imagine the sensation the affair has made in 
the hotel! While I was there one talked of nothing else. 
I myself went along to see the Commissioner of Police, a 
very decent fellow named Bouton, and he told me that there 
are points about the story which may make it a cause celebre/' 

“What are those points?” muttered Lily. 

“One curious point is that the man appears to have been 
drugged. If true, that is a very curious fact, for it disposes 
of the idea that he was set upon and killed by a gang of 
men who had never seen him before. The object of Bouton, 
and of the detectives he has put on the case, is to discover 
where the old fellow spent his last evening. That is still 
shrouded in absolute mystery! Mme. Sansot declares that 
she does not know. The Commissioner is sure she is telling 


The Lonely House 


283 


the truth, but Popeau — who, as of course you know, Lily, 
is a distinguished French secret agent — is convinced that the 
woman does know, and will not tell. He is even inclined 
to believe that she knows more of the murder than she is 
willing to admit. But that neither I nor mamma think likely. 
Altogether it is a Very exciting affair !” 

Lily could not speak. Her mind was in a whirl of miser- 
able suspicion and questioning fear. 

"‘Perhaps you do not realise,” went on Beppo, “that the 
spot where the hideous discovery was made is only about two 
hundred yards from La Solitude!” 

“Surely we’re much farther off than that here !” exclaimed 
Lily. 

“Yes, walking homeward as we are now walking, we are 
at least a mile from La Solitude. But do you remember, 
during our first drive, how we went by a short cut through 
the olive woods?” 

“Yes, remembered Lily, “I remember that.” 

“The Dutchman’s body was found,” said Beppo impres- 
sively, “just above the kind of yellow morass into which, 
as you may ' remember, our motor-car sank.” 

Lily gave a long, convulsive gasp. She saw as if it was 
indeed there, in the air before her, the trolley pushed up 
against the inner wall of the outhouse, with its big bicycle 
wheels stained with yellow mud. 

And then, all at once, her companion saw that she was 
extraordinarily disturbed. He felt both astonished and 
alarmed; the girl looked on the point of fainting. 

“Forgive me for telling you this horrible story!” he ex- 
claimed. “I had no idea it would frighten you so! And 
yet, Lily, I shall not be sorry that I told you if it means that 
you will be careful ” 

“I will be very careful,” she whispered. 

And then they both turned, and walked slowly on. But 
so frightened, so shaken, was she by the story she had just 
heard that at last she had to take Beppo’s arm, and cling 
to it. 


284 The Lonely House 

And always Lily will remember how very kind and con- 
siderate Beppo was to her during the half-hour that followed. 
The young man was puzzled and distressed. Somehow he 
had not realised that Lily was so sensitive! But he knew 
that there are people to whom the thought of any crime 
of violence is extraordinarily painful and disturbing. It was 
clear that this English girl, whom in his way he so truly 
loved, was one of them. 

And then, suddenly, Lily took a desperate resolution. She 
felt she could not go back to La Solitude filled with such a 
hideous, agonising suspicion. 

“Beppo,” she said pleadingly, “I want you to do me a 
great kindness. I want you to go on with me now to the 
Convalescent Home, and to arrange for my things to be 
sent on to me there this afternoon.” 

She saw a look of surprise and discomfiture come over 
his face, and she went on, hastily: 

‘T feel so ill — I know I’m foolish, but I can’t help it, 
Beppo — that story you told me has made me feel sick and 
faint. If I were to go back with you now. Aunt Cosy would 
feel worried, and would ask me a lot of questions.” 

He was impressed by the agitated way she spoke, and by 
her curious pallor. 

“I will do as you wish, Lily,” he said in a soothing tone. 
“I am never at a loss for a good lie! I will say that we 
met one of the nurses and that she forced you to go back 
with her to see a girl friend just come out from England.” 

“That will be good of you,” she murmured gratefully. 
She added, “Perhaps Cristina will put the few things I have 
out in my room in my trunk. It was arranged that the car- 
riage which brings your father and mother back from the 
station should come on to the Home.” 

“Yes, that will be quite all right!” said Beppo cheer- 
fully. “But, Lily, only one thing troubles me — are you fit 
for that further big walk?” 

“Yes, I am quite fit for it,” said Lily. 

She straightened herself, already feeling better and calmer. 


The Lonely House 285 

And, as she walked slowly on, she told herself how amazed 
she would have been two days ago had an angel descended 
from heaven and told her that a time would soon, very soon, 
come when her heart would be filled, not only with affec- 
tionate gratitude, but also with the deepest pity, towards 
Beppo Polda. 

Then she strove to fix her mind on the real foundation for 
her wild, disordered thoughts and horrible suspicions. She 
longed to be alone, free to think things over. But still, deep 
in her heart, she felt she knew now that the Count and 
Countess Polda were cold-blooded murderers. . . . 

It was impossible for Beppo Polda to remain silent for 
any length of time, and during that last half-hour they 
spent together he talked a great deal, trying to tell Lily 
things that he thought would interest her about his English 
friends in Rome. Arid she answered him with a word now 
and again, her heart wrung with pain for the man by her 
side, as there crowded on her memory many of the little 
scenes of the last ten days — ^Aunt Cosy’s pride and delight 
in her handsome, good-humoured, attractive son — Beppo’s 
pretty, caressing ways to his mother and to Cristina. 

Cristina? Lily remembered the old woman’s strange and 
awful self -accusations. Cristina surely — surely was a good 
woman ? 

“Beppo,” she said suddenly, ‘T wish you would tell me 
something about Cristina.” 

“About Cristina?” To her surprise he looked dis- 
turbed and uncomfortable. “What is it you want to know, 
Lily?” 

“What sort of people did she come from originally? She 
is so unlike what I should have supposed servants of her 
class in Italy or France to be.” 

“You have asked me a question, and I will answer it 
truly, Lily.” He spoke very seriously. “Cristina is not 
what she seems.” 

Lily turned and looked at him. She felt surprised, even 
startled. For a moment she forgot the terrible thoughts 


286 The Lonely House 

which had been filling her mind. What took their place was 
an overwhelming curiosity. 

“Cristina,” said Beppo deliberately, “is not a servant. 
She is my father’s sister — not, as mamma probably told 
you, his foster-sister.” 

As an exclamation of astonishment escaped Lily he went 
on : “That woman is an angel ! She adores my father, she 
adores me! When many years ago, papa lost his fortune, 
and my parents were in very truth terribly poor, my Aunt 
Cristina ofifered to come and live with them literally as their 
servant. Time went on, and we became gradually less 
pinched. To do mamma justice, she then desired that Cris- 
tina should take her proper place in the family. But Cris- 
tina refused! She preferred what she calls her indepen- 
dence. It is no secret to you, I feel sure, that she does not 
like my mother — would that she did ! But there it is. They 
are too utterly different to like one another.” 

Lily was amazed by what she had heard — amazed, and 
then, quickly, there was added a feeling of trouble and dis- 
may to her amazement. 

“I suppose,” said Beppo slowly, “that you are very much 
surprised, Lily?” 

She drew a long breath. “Yes,” she said dully. “I am 
very much surprised — and yet in a sense, Beppo, I am 
not surprised at all.” 

The truth escaped her in spite of herself. Whatever 
there was to know, Cristina surely knew. 

“I have told you this, Lily,” said Beppo impressively, 
“because to you I will not lie. The only person now 
livdng who knows the truth is the Marchesa Pescobaldi. 
Her family and mine were friends through generations, 
so she has always known the strange story of Aunt 
Cristina.” 

As she spoke there came back to Lily the curious, ambigu- 
ous words the Marchesa had used as to Cristina being a 
noble woman and doing what she did for the sake of Beppo. 
Had she done a great deal else, which neither Beppo nor 


The Lonely House 287 

anybody else in the world but she, Lily, suspected — also for 
the sake of Beppo? 

They were now close to the entrance of the Home, though 
still out in the open road. 

“Beppo,” said Lily very gently, “I should like to say 
good-bye to you here.” 

“Certainly, if you wish it,” he said, and then he added: 
“Forgive me for saying I hope you will not go in and begin 
work at once. You do not know how ill and tired you look, 
Lily. I shall never forgive myself for having told you that 
horrible tale!” 

“I know you meant it in all kindness,” she said. 

And then, all at once, she added something which as- 
tonished the young man, for, “Fve changed my mind,” she 
said tremulously. “I’d rather you came with me through 
the grounds to the front door. I fell so frightened, Beppo.” 

“But of course!” he said quickly. “I am enchanted to 
be in your company a little longer !” 

They walked up through some beautiful flowering shrubs 
till they stood at the door of the house. A few moments 
later it was opened by the matron. 

She uttered an exclamation of surprise. 

“I thought you wouldn’t mind my coming rather earlier 
than I said,” said Lily. “My luggage will be sent on this 
afternoon.” 

She turned round, and held out her hand to Beppo Polda. 
He took it in his. “Good-bye !” he said. “Good-bye, Lily — 
or rather — I should say au revoir.” 

“Good-bye,” she repeated. And then she lifted up her 
face and, with a surprise which his good breeding enabled 
him completely to conceal, he realised that she expected 
him to bend down and kiss her, in front of the Englishwoman 
who stood by, looking at them curiously. 

He did kiss her — he kissed her as an affectionate brother 
would have done. “Thank you, Lily!” he whispered. 

He felt very much moved and touched. She was an angel 
after all! But deep in his heart he realised something else 


288 The Lonely House 

— ^that this was to be their final parting — that she did not 
intend that they should meet again. 

He turned away, and Lily walked through into the hall. 

'‘Is anything the matter?” asked the matron uneasily. 
“You look very ill, Miss Fairfield. You look ” 

She took hold of the girl’s hand and brought her gently 
forward to a window. 

“You look, my dear, as if you’d had a shock! Has any- 
thing happened?” 

“I have had a shock,” said Lily dully. “But I can’t tell 
you what gave it me. It isn’t my secret. It’s because I 
feel so queer and ill that I came here earlier than I meant 
to do.” 

“You did quite right ! And now you had better go straight 
to bed. I’ll send you up a little lunch on a tray.” 

And then Lily began to cry — very quietly. 

These kindly, commonplace words reminded her of Aunt 
Emn^pline, and her old untroubled life in England, which 
now seemed so infinitely far away. 

There are hours in life when everything but one central, 
concrete point of fear, suspense, or pain, disappears into 
nothingness. As a rule this state of mind lasts but a little 
while. If it goes on too long it kills the human being 
experiencing it, or breaks down teh frail barriers between 
sanity and insanity. 

As she lay in bed all through the afternoon which followed 
her walk with Beppo Polda, Lily Fairfield felt as if she were 
going mad. She asked herself, indeed, if the awful thoughts 
and suspicions which crowded her brain were not, in very 
truth, a proof that her brain had given way, and caused 
her to become suddenly insane. 

Horrible images haunted her mind. She thought of 
La Solitude, that sinister, lonely house, as being full 
of the ghosts of those who there had met with a 
hideous death. 

Deep in her heart she knew that the Countess Polda had 
used her as a catspaw, and once she heard herself say quite 


The Lonely House 289 

out loud : “Aunt Cosy killed George Ponting, and she killed 
Mr. Vissering, and each time I helped !” 

Her thoughts took another turn. What ought she to do? 
Was it her duty to betray Beppo’s father and mother? Noth- 
ing could bring George Ponting or the old Dutchman back to 
life. On the other hand, how prevent the Count and 
Countess having new victims? 

There floated hazily through her mind a memory — a 
memory of having been told a strange and frightening story 
of how a woman who was suspected of having committed 
two murders was stopped, when on the eve of a third crime, 
by receiving an anonymous letter, warning her that if she 
ever committed a third murder she would be arrested. Could 
she, Lily, do something of the kind with regard to Aunt 
Cosy? 

At last, most mercifully, everything about her became 
shadowy, indistinct, and she fell asleep. 

“Would you like to come down to supper. Miss Fairfield?” 

She turned on the electric light — a bright, good light, 
very unlike the guttering candles of La Solitude. 

She sat up, and looked about her. Chi a table lay her 
hat, and with the sight of her hat she suddenly remembered 
— she could not have told you why — M. Pdpeau. 

These people were very kind, but Papa Popeau was her 
frienci, her dear, kind, clever friend. He was leaving 
Monte Carlo to-night, but late, quite late — she knew that. 
Why not go to him now, and put her suspicions, her almost 
certainties, before him? 

Before doing so she would make him promise to forget 
that he had anything to do with the police. She would 
tell him that if he could not make her that promise then she 
could not ask him for advice. But she felt sure he would 
understand. 

As for Angus, she did not want to bri^g him into this 
terrible business at all. There would be plenty of time to 
tell him everything afterwards. Everything? No, not 
everything. She would never, never let him know that poor 


290 The Lonely House 

George Ponting had stayed on that night simply because it 
was a pleasure to him to meet an English girl. 

And never, never would she let anyone know either about 
that horrible old man, Mr. Vissering! She knew — she had 
always known — ^that he had come up to La Solitude on that 
fatal night because he wanted to see her again, and for no 
other reason. 

She went downstairs and then it was as if things were 
being made easy for her. The matron, on hearing that she 
wanted to get into Monte Carlo, told her that the motor was 
going in there to meet a train. But did she feel really well 
enough for the little expedition? 

And Lily said yes, she was all right now, and that it was 
on really important business that she wanted to see a friend 
at the Hotel de Paris. 


CHAPTER XXIIX 


H ERCUiLES POPEAU and Captain Stuart were 
walking up and down in front of the Hotel de Paris. 
Stuart held a letter in his hand. It had been left for him 
late that afternoon, but it had only just been given to him. 

He held the letter out to the other man, and M. Popeau 
read it, slowly and carefully. It was written on the Hotel 
de Paris paper : 

'‘Dear Captain Stuart, 

“I had hoped to find you in, and so convey my invita- 
tion in person. We hope that you will come and share our 
simple meal to-night at La Solitude. Miss Fairfield is not 
at all well, but she tells me that she will be able to come 
down this evening. I do not include Monsieur Popeau in 
my invitation, as I understand he leaves Monte Carlo to- 
day. “Yours sincerely, 

“COSIMA POLDA.” 

“It’s very decent of the Countess to ask me. I don’t see 
why I shouldn’t accept the invitation,” he said hesitatingly. 
“You don’t mind my leaving you, old chap?” 

“I wish I could divine why the Countess Polda has asked 
you to dinner to-night, Stuart,” M. Popeau uttered these 
commonplace words in a hesitating, anxious tone. 

“Perhaps Miss Fairfield suggested it,” said Sfuart a 
little awkwardly. 

“She may have done so.” 

Then came a long pause between the two quaintly con- 
trasted friends. 

There was a soft spot in Hercules Popeau’s heart. Some 
thirty-five years before he also had had his innocent, beau- 

291 


292 The Lonely House 

tiful romance. He had been engaged to a girl he loved, 
and just before their marriage she had developed consump- 
tion. 

His most precious possession was a bundle of her simple, 
formal, and yet how infinitely pathetic, little letters, each of 
them beginning, “Mon cher fiance,” and telling him of the 
everyday, dull, quiet life she was leading in the Mentone 
of the late ’eighties. 

He had never spoken of that piteous episode in his past 
life to any living being since his own mother’s death, but 
now, all at once, he made up his mind that he would speak 
of it to his companion — ^to this young Scot, who, though 
he liked and trusted him, had never confided in him. 

“Stuart,” he said, “T want to tell you something. You 
think me a cynical old fellow, but I, too, have loved — I, too, 
loved a beautiful, pure, sweet-natured girl. She died within 
a very few miles of where we are standing now. I did not 
feel, after her death, that I could build up my life again in 
the good, solid, sensible way which is the only right way 
for a man to do. That is why I am a bachelor. I know in 
my heart that you love Lily Fairfield as I loved my little 
Aimee, and that has much increased my affection for, and 
interest in, you. I will tell you frankly that I am somewhat 
uneasy. You trust Miss Fairfield entirely — I do not doubt 
that she is trustworthy. But still she has now been for many 
days given to the influence of that Italian lady-killer whom 
that sinister couple wish her to marry. Why has the 
Countess Polda asked you there to-night? Especially if Miss 
Lily is not well? Is it to make to you some disagreeable 
announcement? I fear so.” 

“I shall soon know,” said Angus Stuart, “for I mean to 
go. 

He was touched by the Frenchman’s confidence, but too 
shy to say so. 

“Well !” exclaimed M. Popeau, “I will say no more ! Ac- 
cept the invitation, and good luck attend you. I may be a 
suspicious old fool after all!” 


The Lonely House 293 

Again there was silence between them, and then M. Popeau 
observed: “I wish I were staying on, for this Vissering 
affair interests me intensely. It is so strange that there 
should have been another mysterious disappearance, and the 
discovery of a second body, so soon after that of poor Pon- 
ting ! I had a very queer suspicion some time ago, but now 
I confess that I am at fault.’’ 

“What did you suspect? asked Angus Stuart. He had 
been too absorbed in his own affairs to give much thought 
to the mystery which seemed to interest Hercules Popeau so 
deeply. 

“It would not be fair to tell you what I suspected. But 
I will tell you this much. Yesterday Bouton and I had a 
talk with Count Beppo Polda about the affair. I had a half- 
suspicion that he knew Mr. Vissering, but it became per- 
fectly clear to me that he had never even heard the Dutch- 
man’s name. By the way, he will not be at La Solitude to- 
night, for he left Monte Carlo to-day.” 

“I am glad of that,” said Stuart shortly. “I do not care 
for the fellow.” 

“There are worse people than Beppo Polda in the world,” 
said M. Popeau mildly. And Angus Stuart felt rather dis- 
gusted. Why, it was Popeau who had first set him against 
the young Count! 

“So long !” he said quickly. “I think I’ll buzz along now. 
It isn’t good-bye for long.” 

And Hercules Popeau answered quietly, “No, my friend, 
for I may still be here when you come back ; they keep early 
hours at La Solitude.” 

This conversation had taken place nearly three hours ago, 
and now Hercules Popeau was sitting in the hall of the 
Hotel de Paris. He had had a delicious little dinner, a^d 
was smoking a good cigar. In about half an hour he Wduld 
be starting for the station. 1 

He kept looking at the door, for he hoped that 
Stuart would be back before he left the hotel. 'For'' the 


294 The Lonely House 

tenth time he asked himself why the Countess Polda had 
gone out of her way to do the young Scotsman a civility? 
It would have been more natural to ask him, Popeau, to 
dinner, for, after all, he had entertained the Count and 
Countess to luncheon at the Golf Qub. They were curious 
people, but since he and Beppo Polda had had that talk about 
old Vissering he had liked the young man better. 

And then while these thought were flitting through his 
mind he suddenly uttered an exclamation of astonishment 
and of dismay, for coming quickly towards him was Lily 
Fairfield. 

Among the brilliant, gay-looking groups of men and wo- 
men scattered about the hall, some going to, some coming 
from the Club, she looked a strange, pathetic little figure. 

Was it the fact that she was dressed in mourning that 
made her look so unnaturally pale? And what could have 
happened at La Solitude? A thrill of sharp apprehension 
went through him. 

“Yes it is I, Monsieur Popeau. I want to see you in 
private for a few minutes. I have something to tell you — 
to ask you to do for me. I want your advice.” 

She was looking round her nervously, like a hunted 
creature. 

“If possible, I don’t want Captain Stuart to know that 
I have come to see you to-night. Can we go somewhere.- 
just for a few minutes, where he is not likely to see us?” 

“But — he is up to La Solitude, Mademoiselle?” 

“At La Solitude? Oh no! Surely not?” 

There was surprise and terror in the tone in which the 
girl repeated the name of the lonely house. 

“Let’s come out of doors,” she exclaimed. “I — I hardly 
know what I am doing. Monsieur Popeau!” 

He followed her, full of unease and acute curiosity ; what 
could have happened up at La Solitude, to make Lily Fair- 
field look as she was looking now ? And where was Angus 
Stuart ? 

“Surely you left Captain Stuart up at La Solitude?” he 


The Lonely House 295 

exclaimed, when they at last found themselves standing alone 
in the open air, gazing at one another in the half -darkness. 

'‘I have not come from La Solitude. But even so, why 
should you think Captain Stuart is there, Monsieur Popeau 

She asked the question in a voice she tried in vain to 
make natural and calm. 

“The Countess called here this afternoon and left a note 
asking him to come to dinner either to-night or to-morrow 
night. She said you were not well, but that you would be 
down for the meal.” 

“But she knew that I was at the Convalescent Home and 
that I am not coming back to La Salitude till next week !” 

“That makes what she did appear very strange,” said M. 
Popeau slowly, and he began to feel very much alarmed and 
puzzled. 

There was a curious pause. He took the girl’s hand. 

“What is it?” he asked. “You frighten me! Though 
I am a man of mystery, I hate mysteries I” 

“We must go up to La Solitude, now, at once!” she 
whispered, and he saw, he felt, that she was shaking all over. 

“They are murderers. Monsieur Popeau ! They killed Mr. 
Vissering — and I think they killed Mr. Ponting. They may 
be doing — something — to Angus now ” 

“No, no! He is probably quite safe. But we will go and 
see now, this moment!” 

He called out to a passing taxi on its way back to Nice. 

“We shall be there very soon,” he said, and patted her 
hand. Somehow, his matter-of-fact manner comforted and 
steadied her as he said to the driver rapidly in French: 
“This is a hundred- francs’ job for you, my friend, and less 
than half an hour’s drive!” 

He helped Lily to get into the cab, and then briefly ordered 
the driver to go to the Condamine. 

“You know the house of the Commissioner of Police?” 

The man nodded. He did not look at all surprised. 
Monte Carlo is a place of unexpected happenings, of great 
and small tragedies. 


296 The Lonely House 

M. Popeau put his fat right arm round his companion’s 
shoulder. 

“Come, come,” he said. “Do not be frightened, mv dear • 
child.” 

'"Must you go to Monsieur Bouton?” she exclaimed. 
“Can’t we go straight to La Solitude?” 

“I am not going to tell Monsieur Bouton anything. I am 
simply going to ask him to lend me two good stout fellows 
in case we should require help.” 

They arrived in the quiet, solitary street she remembered 
so vividly in a very few seconds, but after M. Popeau had 
gone into the house she waited, quivering with impatience, 
in the darkness, for what seemed a long time; but at last 
he came back alone. Tt’s all right,” he said briskly. 

He did not add that he had told M. Bouton that he be- 
lieved he was on a new track connected with the Vissering 
affair. 

“Pve arranged for two intelligent, strong young fellows 
to follow us in two or three minutes in a police motor, but 
they won’t come into the gorunds of La Solitude unless I 
whistle for them. And now,” he said, “would it trouble 
you very much if you were to tell me why you came to see 
me to-night, and also why you made that — that very serious 
allegation against the Count and Countess Polda?” 

And Lily did tell him a broken, confused way what she 
feared, nay, what by now she felt sure, was the dread truth. 

“Perhaps Pm being very foolish about Angus,” she said 
in a low voice. “After all, he has no money, thank God !” 

“No, but he has you,” said M. Popeau very gravely. 
“Have I not guessed right, my dear child?” 

As only answer Lily pressed the hand which held hers 
in so protective and kind a grasp. 

Through both their minds there flashed simultaneously 
the same thought — that Angus Stuart was indeed a formid- 
able obstacle to the Countess Polda’s wishes. 

But how could she have found this out? She had hardly 
ever seen the two young people together. Besides, even he. 


The Lonely House 297 

Hercules Popeau, had not felt sure till just now, when the 
girl sitting by his side had squeezed his hand in answer to 
his question. 

The Frenchman began to feel far more uneasy than he 
allowed Lily to know. For one thing, it was so strange that 
Angus Stuart had not come back long ere now to the Hotel 
de Paris! On the other hand, they might have just missed 
him. Another possibility was that Stuart might even now 
be on his way down to Monte Carlo. Once they got clear 
of the streets M. Popeau instructed the driver to look out 
for a gentleman. But as they rushed up the steep, winding 
road it remained absolutely solitary till at last they heard 
the police motor coming up behind them. 

“I suggest that we stop the taxi some way below the 
grounds. Our object is to take them by surprise. Remem- 
ber, Mademoiselle, that if our suspicions are justified we 
shall have to deal with desperate people.’’ 

A few moments later they were creeping softly, swiftly, 
up through the orange grove. It was very dark, for the 
moon was now but a slender crescent, and their footsteps 
sounded unnaturally loud. 

Lily and M. Popeau were leading, with the two police 
agents three or four yards behind them. 

All at once M. Popeau stopped walking, and listened in- 
tently. Yes, there was a curious sound coming from where 
they knew the house to be. But it was an outdoor sound, 
caused by something moving over to the right, where a 
clump of bushes hid the front door of La Solitude from that 
end of the terrace. 

It was as if a big broom were being lightly brushed along 
the ground, and now and again there came the rustling of 
branches. The Frenchman told himself that it was probably 
some animal which had padded in from the mountain-side. 

They all walked slowly on, still in the same order. It 
was very dark, very unlike the brilliant moonlit night when 
the strange old Dutchman had dined at La Solitude. Still, 
even so, as they emerged on to the edge of the wood they 


298 The Lonely House 

could dimly see the lawn before them, and the long, low 
outline of the house. 

All at once there came over those watching there, in the 
shadow of the dense grove of low trees, a feeling that there 
was something moving, processionally, on the terrace. 

Taking Lily’s hand, M. Popeau walked forward on to the 
rough grass of the lawn. 

Yes, there could be no doubt about it now, a group of 
people, propelling something along, were moving noiselessly 
across the front of the house. 

The dim grey group passing so slowly, silently by, re- 
minded M. Popeau, most incongruously, of a wonderful 
series of shadow pictures he had seen as a young man at a 
famous cafe in Montmartre, in which a vivid drama 
was enacted by silent, noiseless figures in action being 
thrown upon a screen. What did that sinister proces- 
sion mean? 

He hesitated as to what he should do — whether to give the 
signal to the two men to rush up and throw their search- 
lights on that group who were now advancing across the 
terrace right in front of where he and Lily stood breath- 
lessly watching them, or to wait yet a little longer. 

And then, all at once, something small and white leapt 
off the terrace and came running across the grass straight 
at the unseen watchers ! 

M. Popeau stopped and put out his hand. What on earth 
was this? Had the Poldas a dog? But his hand sank 
into thick, soft fur. 

It was Mimi, the huge cat, pressing herself against Lily’s 
black skirt, purring loudly the while, glad at having found 
a friend who perhaps would take some notice of her, unlike 
her other, more familiar friends, who were too much ab- 
sorbed in their strange business to notice her. 

And still M. Popeau delayed to give the signal to the men 
who were behind him. For one thing he was afraid of what 
he was about to discover — afraid as he had never been in his 
life before, for he had come to care for Angus Stuart. 


The Lonely House 


299 


Slowly the moving shadows disappeared to the left. They 
were evidently now engaged in the broad path which led 
from the left of the house to the edge of the little 
property, with naught beyond but a wild bit of moun- 
tain-side. 

The Frenchman, still holding Lily by the hand, moved up 
after the sinister group, and then, all at once, he blew his 
whistle. 

At that signal all four rushed forward at right angles 
across the lawn on to the end of the terrace. M. Popeau 
uttered loudly the one word “Maintenant !” and two power- 
ful torches were turned full on the strangest sight which 
even the famous secret agent had ever gazed upon. 

On a long, low trolly with high bicycle wheels lay Angus 
Stuart, looking as if asleep — M. Popeau thought him dead. 

The trolly was being propelled by Count Polda, and at the 
foot of the trolley walked the Countess, backwards. Cris- 
tina stepped lightly, phantom-like, by the further side. 

For the space of what seemed a long time, though it was 
only for three or four seconds, the group remained, brilliantly 
lighted up, in stark and terrified immobility. 

Then two shot rang out. The Count had turned the 
weapon with which he had meant to kill Angus Stuart against 
himself. 

At once there followed a scene of awful confusion. The 
Countess began fighting as if for her life with one of the 
strong, agile men provided by M. Bouton. His companion 
was bending over Count Polda, and Lily, with trembling 
fingers, was following M. Popeau’s directions and trying to 
undo the insensible Angus Stuart’s collar and shirt. But 
since he had exclaimed, in a tone of infinite relief, ‘‘Be of 
good courage ! He is not dead,” she no longer troubled as to 
what was happening about her. 

And then, while all this was going on, Cristina vanished 
like a wraith, in the night. But no one saw her go, or 
indeed noticed that she had gone, till long afterwards — as 
length of time was counted on that strange and awful night. 


300 The Lonely House 

“Do you think you could go into the house and find me 
a candle?” muttered M. Popeau. 

“Oh yes, of course I can !” 

Lily set off running towards the house. 

“Not so fast!” panted M. Popeau close behind her. 
“Stuart is only drugged,” he exclaimed. “He will be quite 
himself by to-morrow morning. But we only came just 
in time. You saved his life!” 

Lily stopped, and looked at the closed shutters of La 
Solitude. 

“I wonder how I can get in?” she murmured. 

“Are you afraid to go into the house alone?” he asked. 

“No, no,” she cried, “not a bit afraid! Never afraid any 
more!” 

She ran along the terrace aid so round to the back of 
the house — yes, the gate which gave access to the yard was 
wide open ! 

She opened the kitchen door. Cristina’s little oil lamp 
was burning, and she felt a vague sensation of surprise that 
everything looked just as usual. 

Taking up a candle and a box of matches she rushed 
back again through the yard and round to the terrace. 

She found M. Popeau alone by the trolly. After Lily 
had lit the candle, “Yes, it is as I thought — ^they could not 
make him drunk, but they gave him some form of strong 
narcotic, probably in water. We will take him down to the 
taxi, and so back to the hotel. He will be all right by the 
morning.” 

The man whom Lily had last seen struggling with the 
Countess Polda came forward. “I have got her tied up,” he 
said apologetically. “There was nothing else to do, 
Monsieur !” 

“You had better take her into the house, and stay there 
with her till M. Bouton sends up instructions.” 

“We fear Count Polda is dying ” 

“And where is the old servant?” asked M. Popeau sud- 
denly. 


The Lonely House 301 

The man looked taken aback. “She can’t have gone far,” 
he exclaimed ; “we’ll soon find her, Monsieur !” 

Beppo Polda sat in his bachelor rooms in Rome finishing 
the frugal supper his excellent day-servant had left out for 
him. He had only arrived about an hour before, and he 
felt pleasantly tired after the long journey. 

He was in a very cheerful state of mind, for he had found 
awaiting him a cordial letter from the great financial author- 
ity he had come to meet. And also he had had time to forget 
the at once solemn and rather painful impression Lily’s fare- 
well had made on him. Nay, more, he had half persuaded 
himself by now that that strange good-bye kiss had been 
a sign that she was softening towards him. His mother 
was not only a clever woman, she also had a shrewd knowl- 
edge of human nature. She was probably right in thinking 
that if he were only patient he would win Lily in the end. 

He was hesitating as to whether he should go to bed, or 
saunter along to his club, when he heard a low knock at 
the door which opened on one of the landings of the huge 
old house where he had his rooms. Feeling rather sur- 
prised, for no one yet knew of his return, he went and 
opened the door — and then a thrill of irritation shot through 
him, for a slim, deeply- veiled woman stood out there, in 
the dim light cast by the stircase lantern. 

He knew, only too well, who his visitor was. 

“This is really wrong, and most imprudent, Livia.” he 
said sharply. “I should not have told you the hour of my 
arrival had I known that you would do this mad thing !” 

She threw back her veil, and he was startled at the look 
of strain and anguish on her pale face. 

“What is it?” he exclaimed. “Has anything happened 


“No, nothing has happened to my husband ; and he knows, 
Beppo, that I am here.” 

“He knows that you are here?” 


302 The Lonely House 

He was thoroughly startled and alarmed now. What 
was it she had come to say? 

He drew her gently through into his ante-chamber. Then 
he shut the door. 

“Now tell me, Livia,” he said, “what brings you here 
to-night ?” 

She answered in an almost inaudible voice, “During the 
evening four different reporters came at different times to 
ask if we knew where you were.” 

“Four reporters?” Beppo looked astounded. 

“Then you have heard nothing? No one has been here?” 

“The notice telling of my absence is still on the door 
downstairs. But why am I sought for?” he asked, be- 
wildered. 

The Marchesa Pescobaldi was trembling violently now; 
it was if she had the ague. He took her cold hand in 
his. 

“Come, Livia, calm yourself ! I have done nothing — I 
swear it!” 

“Of course I know that you have done nothing,” she 
whispered, and then she held out with shaking fingers a 
strip of thin paper. 

Beppo Polda did not know that it was what all the world 
over is familiar to newspaper men as “flimsy.” 

He took it in his hand, and turning away from her held 
it close up under a lamp which hung from the high ceiling. 

On the piece of paper was written in pale characters and 
in a plain, round hand : 

A TERRIBLE AFFAIR AT MONTE CARLO. 

“An amazing affair has just taken place at Monte Carlo. The 
Count and Countess Polda, highly-respected residents and natives of 
the Principality, are both in prison since last night under the charge 
of having committed a series of singularly cold-blooded and infamous 
murders. 

The Count lies, dangerously vi^ounded by his own hand, in the 
infirmary of the prison. The Countess has had a series of heart 
attacks, and it is thought probable that she will escape justice. 


The Lonely House 303 


A search is being instituted in the neighborhood for their servant, 
who is believed to have been their accomplice. 

Their last victim, a rich young Englishman staying at the Hotel de 
Paris, was only saved by the fortunate accident that a friend, having 
business with him, hurried up to the Polda’s villa late at night, to 
find the miscreants on the point of killing him. His grave was already 
dug. 

The affair is of peculiar interest to Roman society, as Count Beppo 
Polda, the well-known sportsman, is the only son of the Count and 
Countess Polda. 

Count Beppo, who had been staying with his parents, left Monte 
Carlo yesterday. Every effort will be made to find him, as it is 
thought that he is an accomplice.” 



CHAPTER XXX 


F our days had gone by, and Lily was sitting out in 
the sunshine with Angus Stuart. The effect of the 
poisonous drug which had been administered to him the 
night he had dined at La Solitude had not passed off as 
quickly as Papa Popeau had believed it would. Still, he was 
now by way of being well again, and for the first time Lily 
felt she could ask him to tell her what had happened during 
the evening which was to end in so terrible and tragic a 
fashion. 

He waited for a while before answering her, and then 
he said very quietly: 

“There is curiously little to tell, darling. The one out- 
standing thing I remember is how surprised and annoyed 
I was that you did not appear. The Countess Polda is a 
wonderful actress ” 

Lily shuddered. “She is indeed,’’ she whispered. 

“I remember that when she came out to meet me, as I 
walked up to the terrace by the usual way cross the lawn, 
she explained that you were not quite so well, and that she 
had persuaded you to remain in bed until after dinner. 
Looking back, I suppose she intended me to say — T hope 
Miss Fairfield won’t come down at all.’ ” He waited for 
a moment, then went on: “But, Lily, I was selfish, and 
I wanted desperately to see you! I had a queer kind of 
apprehensive feeling about you. Popeau had said something 
which had made me feel vaguely anxious, and I didn’t believe 
it would do you any harm to come down for a few minutes 
— so I simply answered that I was glad you would come 
down after dinner.” 

“What happened then?” asked Lily. 

“Nothing particular happened, that I can recall. They 

304 


The Lonely House 305 

were both very civil, in a formal, affected way, and I was 
astonished at the splendid spread to which we ultimately 
sat down. Still, there was a certain amount of delay, and 
as I look back I cannot help suspecting that their old 
servant ’’ 

He saw a curious expression pass over Lily's face, but he 
had no clue to what lay behind, so after a moment he went 
on : 

“What was I saying? Oh yes — I cannot help thinking 
that the old servant wanted to convey some kind of warning 
to me. Twice, when she was standing in the only place 
where neither the Count nor the Countess could see her face, 
she stared at me in the most peculiar fashion, as if trying 
to attract my attention; and then after we had some hot 
soup — ^the rest of the meal was cold — she dropped a lovely 
but very small decanter on to the floor, and it broke into 
three or four pieces. It had had in it some liqueur the 
Count wanted me to taste, and I wondered to-day — for to- 
day is the first time I have really thought the whole thing 
over — whether that liqueur was drugged ? Though the 
Count and Countess took the breaking of the decanter very 
well, and really made no fuss about it, I could see that they 
were extremely angry with the poor old soul. In fact, the 
Countess told her that henceforth we would wait on our- 
selves, and that she need not come back into the room.” 

Again he stopped speaking for a few moments. Then he 
began again: “The Count went out of the dining-room for 
some more of this special liqueur, and he brought back some 
of it already poured out in two rather big wineglasses. I 
confess I thought it was quite delicious, and made, I should 
judge, of very old brandy.” 

“And what happened after you had finished dinner?” 
asked Lily in an almost inaudible voice. 

There had risen before her the scene Angus had described 
so simply — the unhappy Cristina trying to save Angus, and 
of course failing, utterly. 

“To tell you the truth, Lily, I felt very tired and stupid. 


3o 6 The Lonely House 

The Count had filled up my wineglass rather often/* he 
added, smiling, “That does not mean that I was drunk. 
But still, I did feel rather queer!** 

“You mean after dinner?** 

“Yes. And yet 1 was very much alive to the fact that you 
had not fulfilled your promise to come down, and twice the 
Countess went upstairs to hurry you. Each time she came 
back she said you were just coming, and of course I believed 
her. And then — and then — well, Lily, I suppose the drug 
they had managed to convey to me, either in the food, or in 
the wine and liqueur, began to act. As I sat on in the 
drawing-room, I got desperately drowsy, but I cannot tell 
at what exact time I fell into the sort of sleep which was 
practically insensibility.** 

“I wonder they didn*t kill you in the house,** said Lily 
in a strained voice. 

“It was much safer to put a bullet into me by the side 
of the grave they had dug, and then tumble me in,** he said 
in a matter-of-fact way. “Popeau is convinced that I was 
the first of their friends they had ever thought of burying. 
The others were all so arranged as to convey in each case 
the impression of suicide.’* 

Lily Fairfield drew a long breath. 

“You have told me everything I wanted to know,** she 
said, “and we’ll make up our minds, here and now, never 
to speak of it again !’* 

“I agree,** he answered quietly. “Popeau knows all I 
have told you, and he didn’t want me to go into it with you, 
but it would only have worried you to go on wondering what 
had happened.*’ 

Reader, have you ever thought what it would be like to 
be in any way associated with a great criminal case — what 
the French call a cause celehref Lily felt herself the cyno- 
sure of a hundred eyes wherever she moved or showed her- 
self ; yet very few of the people gazing so curiously at the 
pretty English girl knew how really closely associated she 


^ The Lonely House 307 

had been with the awful events which had taken place in 
the last few weeks at La Solitude. But the mere fact that 
she had stayed there as the guest of the Count and Countess 
Polda invested here with a morbid interest in their eyes. 

The principal public excitement was concentrated on Cris- 
tina, and on that unhappy woman’s mysterious disappear- 
ance. She was being searched for high and low, but it was 
as if the earth had swallowed her up. 

And now, to-day, Lily Fairfield was expecting Mr. Bower- 
ing, who had been at once telegraphed for by Hercules 
Popeau. Though everything had been done to save her pain 
and distress, she had had to submit to a long interrogation 
on the part of three famous French lawyers, and M. Popeau 
was now secretly absorbed in the task of devising a way by 
which his young friend could be spared the terrible ordeal 
of appearing as a witness at the Countess Polda’s forth- 
coming trial. 

Count Polda was dying, and the hope of finding out where 
Cristina had hidden herself was being gradually abandoned. 

All at once M. Popeau ambled up to where the two young 
people were sitting. 

“Would you like to walk down to the station and meet 
your English friend?” he said persuasively to Lily. 

The girl got up obediently. She moved like an automaton. 
“I will, if you think I had better do so,” she said dully. The 
story Angus Stuart had just told her was becoming intoler- 
ably real to her. 

While walking down the broad road leading to the station 
Lily suddenly startled M. Popeau. 

“There’s something I must ask you,” she said in a low 
tone. “I want to know about Beppo Polda. Does poor, poor 
Beppo know ?” There was a sob in her throat. “If he does, 
how strange it is that he isn’t here ! Or is he here, after all ? 
Have they arrested him too? I seem to know nothing now 
of what is really happening!” 

The Frenchman hesitated for a moment, then he said 
gently : 


3o8 


The Lonely House 


“You do not need to trouble yourself about Beppo Polda. 
By a strange and wonderful piece of good fortune for him, 
poor fellow, he killed himself accidentally in a shooting gal- 
lery the very night he arrived in Rome — before there was 
time for him to have learnt the awful truth/' 

Lily’s lip quivered, the tears ran down her face. And 
yet — yes, she was glad ! 

“And Cristina?” she ventured. “What do you think has 
really happened to her. Monsieur Popeau?” 

“I think I know what has happened to Cristina,” he said 
mysteriously. Then he stopped walking, and looked round, 
but there was no one near enough to hear what he had sud- 
denly made up his mind to tell her. He knew that he could 
trust her. 

“I am quite sure that the unhappy woman fled on that 
awful night down to the valley, and then up to old Monaco, 
to the Convent of the White Sisters,” he said in a low 
voice. 

Before Lily’s inward vision there rose up the great for- 
bidding-looking iron gates which gave access to the sunny 
courtyard beyond. She saw again the stately Mother Su- 
perior, heard her reprove poor Cristina, kindly but firmly, 
for the wild way in which she had spoken of herself. 

“The Order was founded by one of Cristina’s own an- 
cestresses,” went on the Frenchman, “and there has always 
been a close connection between the Convent and the Poldas. 
It is possible, but 1 do not say it is likely — for after all, 
women are women, even when they wear the Holy Habit — 
that the nuns have not yet heard the story of what has hap- 
pened at La Solitude, though all Monaco is ringing with 
it! But in any case, the nuns would never give Cristina 
up to justice. The poor soul will spend her life henceforth 
in work and prayer, repenting of her part in her wicked 
sister-in-law’s crimes, and praying for Beppo Polda’s soul.” 

“I cannot understand how Cristina could ever have allowed 
herself to be used in that way,” said Lily in a deeply 
troubled tone. “She was so very kind and gentle.” 


309 


The Lonely House 

“I have little doubt that at first she was but an uncon- 
scious accomplice, and that at last the Count and Countess 
had to take her into their confidence. You may think of 
her now as being happier than she has been for years and 
years, for her life must have been one long torture. Yes, 
during the last two days I have liked to think of poor Cris- 
tina in that quiet old convent on the hill,’* he said medi- 
tatively. “There must be wonderful views of both sea and 
land from those of the nuns’ cells which overlook the sea.” 

“Two days ago?” said Lily suddenly. “Then did some- 
thing happen two days ago that made you feel sure that 
Cristina had taken refuge there? 

Monsier Popeau again looked round. He even came a 
little closer to his pretty companion. 

“I took a walk up to old Monaco quite early in the morn- 
ing two days ago,” he said hesitatingly. “I walked past the 
gardens where I once left you alone with Captain Stuart, 
and then, when I was at the extreme end of the rock, I looked 
up, and on a little piece of wall which I now know to have 
been the wall of the convent garden, I saw ” 

He stopped, and Lily exclaimed breathlessly, “You saw 
Cristina peeping over?” 

“No, I did not see Cristina peeping over — but I saw — 
Mimi !” 

“Mimi! the cat?” exclaimed Lily. 

“Yes, Mimi, the cat — walking along the top of the wall, 
already beginning to look as if he felt at home there! In 
fact, I will confess to you. Mademoiselle, that I tried a little 
experiment. I called out very quietly and tenderly, ‘Mimi, 
Mimi, come hither, my friend!’ and at once he jumped 
down, and rubbed himself, purring loudly, against me.” 

“What an extraordinary thing!” exclaimed Lily. 

“Without doubt poor Cristina caught up the cat, and fled 
with him. And now, as I said before, you may think of 
the poor woman as being happier than she has been for 
many, many years. She was the hapless victim of her 
wicked sister-in-law.” 


310 The Lonely House 

As Lily gazed up into his face, a thousand questions 
trembling on her lips — questions that yet she shrank from 
asking — he went on, slowly: 

“Bouton and I have been making certain calculations, 
and we are convinced that old Vissering was the Countess's 
ninth victim. But, of course, till the last few weeks, when 
circumstances proved too much for her, she was very pru- 
dent — she allowed, that is, plenty of time to elapse between 
each of her crimes. Towards the last, the complete im- 
munity she had enjoyed made her feel that she need never 
fear to be suspected. Hers was the master mind. We have 
some evidence that the Count and Cristina were unwilling ac- 
complices. On two occasions men afterwards so foully done 
to death received anonymous letters which we know could 
only have come from La Solitude.” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


L ily sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. She had 
been dreaming — dreaming of home, of Aunt Emmeline, 
and of kind Uncle Tom. And then, all at once, she remem- 
bered everything. This at once familiar and unfamiliar 
place was her bedroom, in the Convalescent Home where 
she had been treated with such wonderful kindness during 
the last ten days. 

Only ten days since that awful night? It seemed to her 
a year. Sometimes she still felt as if it was all a dream. 
And yet — and yet 

All at once she covered her face with her hands. To-day, 
incredible though the fact still seemed, was to be her wedding 
day! 

It was Hercules Popeau who had worked the miracle — 
for it still seemed a miracle to the two most closely con- 
cerned. It was he who had persuaded the cautious English 
lawyer, Mr. Bowering, that if Lily Fairfield were to be saved 
from the terrible ordeal of giving evidence against her 
pseudo-aunt, she must become, before the trial of Countess 
Polda, Angus Stuart’s wife — ^the chattel of her husband, 
compelled, that is, to follow him where he ordered her to 
go. 

There had been a good deal of rather anxious discussion. 
For one thing, Angus Stuart had been unwilling to take 
advantage of the strange position in which Lily found her- 
self. But once Mr. Bowering and Hercules Popeau had 
overcome his scruples, Lily had been profoundly moved to 
see how ecstatically happy her lover had become. Almost 
as happy, she now whispered, as she was herself ! 

There came a sudden knocking at the bed-room door, and 
the matron, walking in, pulled up the blind. 

311 


312 The Lonely House 

I too early?” she asked solicitously. 

Lily shook her head, smiling. 

And now, with the sun streaming into the room, for the 
very first time the awful nightmare which had always been 
there in the background, even during the last few joyous 
days, seemed to fade away. Lily forgot the past and thought 
only of the future. 

How wonderful to know that she and Angus were going 
off alone, this afternoon, to Italy for their honeymoon! It 
seemed, somehow, too good to be true. 

“A large box has come for you from Paris. I wonder 
what can be in it?” said the matron, smiling. 

“But I don’t know anyone in Paris!” But even as she 
said the words one of the V.A.D.’s with whom Lily had 
made friends during the last few days brought in a large 
box, covered with that curious black shiny paper with which 
French people do up parcels. 

“I don’t think it can be for me,” exclaimed Lily doubt- 
fully. 

“Oh yes, it is. It’s been expressed by passenger train.” 

“How very, very strange !” 

She jumped out of bed, and looked down eagerly at the 
mysterious box. It was addressed “Mademoiselle Fairfield.” 

The V.A.D. cut the stout cord, and lifted the wooden lid. 
Layer after layer of tissue paper was taken out, and then, 
finally, a beautiful ermine coat emerged, together with a 
quaint little ermine toque, in which nestled a sprig of orange- 
blossom and of myrtle! 

It was the matron who finally espied a visiting-card, on 
which was written in tiny characters: 

‘With the donor’s sincere good wishes. Papa Popeau 
hopes that Mademoiselle Lily will honour him by wearing 
his wedding gift on her marriage day.” 

Lily’s eyes filled with tears. How very good this quaint, 
whimsical, elderly Frenchman had been to her! 

Looking back, as they often do look back, to their strange 


The Lonely House 313 

wedding-day, both Angus and Lily Stuart always agree 
that in many ways it was Papa Popeau, rather than the 
bridegroom, who had seemed the hero of the occasion. It 
was he who appeared the central figure of the quaint little 
group gathered together round the temporary altar which 
had been set up that day in the hotel where the British 
chaplain, during that first winter after the War, officiated. 

As was but fitting, the Frenchman was best man to his 
Scots friend, and to everybody's amazement he had appeared 
garbed in ancient dress clothes, with, on his breast, the Cross 
of the Legion of Honour and the Military Cross! 

It was Papa Popeau also who presided at the wedding 
feast which took place just after the wedding in a private 
room at the Hotel de Paris. It was he who put the bride, 
looking radiantly happy and wearing her superb ermine 
coat over her old frock — for she felt as if she never wanted 
to see any of the lovely clothes she had bought with Aunt 
Cosy again — into the luxurious motor which somehow or 
other he had managed to procure for the happy pair at very 
short notice. 

In fact, so extraordinarily brilliant were Papa Popeau's 
various improvisations, and so artful the way in which he 
had managed to persuade everybody to do exactly what he 
wanted done, that Mr. Bowering muttered to Angus Stuart : 
“I begin to see why France won the Battle of the Marne.” 

But it was fortunate, perhaps, that Lily did not overhear 
the final words which Hercules Popeau exchanged with 
the English solicitor after the two had watched the motor- 
car containing the now married lovers speeding towards 
Italy : 

“And now, dear sir, while you go back to the fogs of 
Albion, I will return to the more congenial task of seeing 
that the Countess Polda is well and truly guillotined !” 


THE END 








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